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SOUTHAMPTON
STREET 4

OFFICES

AN• ILtUSTRRTED-MONTHLY.

THE

STRflKD MKGJIZIHE

Illustrated JYlontMv;

EDITED BY

GEORGE NEWNES

Vol. XVII.

JANUARY TO JUNE

Xonfcon:

GEORGE NEWNES, LTD., 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, & 12 , SOUTHAMPTON STREET
AND EXETER STREET, STRAND

1899

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS, SIR?
(See page io.)

Ti-ie Strand Magazine.

Vol. xvii.

JANUARY, 1899.

No. 97.

Round the Fire.

By A. Conan Doyle.

THE JAPANNED BOX.

a more obvious prelude to an engagement ?
She governs me now, and I tutor two little
boys of our own. But, there—I have already
revealed what it was which I gained in
Thorpe Place !

It was a very, very old house, incredibly
old — pre-Norman, some of it—and the
Bollamores claimed to have lived in that
situation since long before -the Conquest. It
struck a chill to my heart when first I came
there, those enormously thick grey walls, the
rude crumbling stones, the smell as from a
sick animal which exhaled from the rotting
plaster of the aged building. But the modern
wing was bright and the garden was well
kept. No house could be dismal which had
a pretty girl inside it and such a show of
roses in front.

Apart from a very complete staff of servants
there were only four of us in the household.
These were Miss Witherton, who was at that
time four-and-twenty and as pretty—well, as
pretty as Mrs. Colmore is now—myself,
Frank Colmore, aged thirty, Mrs. Stevens,
the housekeeper, a dry, silent woman, and
Mr. Richards, a tall, military-looking man,
who acted as steward to the Bollamore
estates. We four always had our meals
together, but Sir John had his usually alone
in the library. Sometimes he joined us at
dinner, but on the whole we were just as glad
when he did not.

For he was a very formidable person.
Imagine a man six foot three inches in height,
majestically built, with a high-nosed, aristo¬
cratic face, brindled hair, shaggy eyebrows, a
small, pointed Mephistophelian beard ? and

Vq}. xv}j .—1 Copyright, 1899, by George Newnes, Limited*

VIII.—THE STORY OF

T was a curious thing, said
the private tutor; one of
those grotesque and whimsi¬
cal incidents which occur
to one as one goes through
life. I lost the best situation
which I am ever likely to have through it.
But I am glad that I went to Thorpe
Place, for I gained—well, as I tell you the
story you will learn what I gained.

I don’t know whether you are familiar with
that part of the Midlands which is drained
by the Avon. It is the most English
part of England. Shakespeare, the flower
of the whole race, was born right in the
middle of it. It is a land of rolling pastures,
rising in higher folds to the westward, until
they swell into the Malvern Hills. There
are no towns, but numerous villages, each
with its grey Norman church. You have
left the brick of the southern and eastern
counties behind you, and everything is stone
—stone for the walls, and lichened slabs of
stone for the roofs. It is all grim and
solid and massive, as befits the heart of a
great nation.

It was in the middle of this country, not
very far from Evesham, that Sir John Bolla¬
more lived in the old ancestral home of
Thorpe Place, and thither it was that I .came
to teach his two little sons. Sir John was
a widower—his wife had died three years
before—and he had been left with these two
lads aged eight and ten, and one dear little
girl of seven. Miss Witherton, who is now
my wife, was governess to this little girl. I
was tutor to the two boys. Could there be

THE STRAND MAGAZINE,.

lines upon his brow and round his eyes as
deep as if they had been carved with a pen¬
knife. He had grey eyes, weary, hopeless-
looking eyes, proud and yet pathetic, eyes
which claimed your pity and yet dared you
to show it. His back was rounded with
study, but otherwise he was as fine a look¬
ing man of his age—five-and-fifty perhaps—
as any woman would wish to look upon.

But his presence was not a cheerful
one. He was always
courteous, always re¬
fined, but singularly
silent and retiring.

I have never lived
so long with any
man and known so
little of him. If he
were indoors he
spent his time either
in his own small
study in the Eastern
Tower, or in the
library in the modern
wing. So regular
was his routine that
one could always say
at any hour exactly
where he would be.

Twice in the day he
would visit his study,
once after breakfast,
and once about ten
at night. You might
set your watch by
the slam of the heavy
door. For the rest
of the day he would
be in his library—
save that for an hour
or two in the after¬
noon he would take
a walk or a ride,
which was solitary
like the rest of his
existence. He loved
his children, and was
keenly interested in
the progress of their studies, but they were
a little awed' by the silent, shaggy-browed
figure, and they avoided him as much as they
could. Indeed, we all did that.

It was some time before I came to know
anything about the circumstances of Sir John
Bollamore’s life, for Mrs. Stevens, the house¬
keeper, and Mr. Richards, the land-steward,
were too loyal to talk easily of their employer’s
affairs. As to the governess, she knew no
more than I did ? and our common interest

was one of the causes which drew us together.
At last, however, an incident occurred which
led to a closer acquaintance with Mr. Richards
and a fuller knowledge of the life of the man
whom I served.

The immediate cause of this was no less
than the falling of Master Percy, the youngest
of my pupils, into the mill-race, with imminent
danger both to his life and to mine, since I
had to risk myself in order to save him.

Dripping and ex¬
hausted—for I was
far more spent than
the child — I was
making for my room
when Sir John, who
had heard the hub¬
bub, opened the door
of his little study
and asked me what
was the matter. I
told him of the acci¬
dent, but assured
him that his child
was in no danger,
while he listened with
a rugged, immobile
face, which ex¬
pressed in its intense
eyes and tightened
lips all the emotion
which he tried to
conceal.

“ One moment !
Step in here ! Let
me have the details 1”
said he, turning back
through the open
door.

And so I found
myself within that
little sanctum, inside
which, as I after¬
wards learned, no
other foot had for
three years been set
save that of the old
servant who cleaned
it out. It was a round room, conforming
to the shape of the tower in which it
was situated, with a low ceiling, a single
narrow, ivy-wreathed window, and the simplest
of furniture. An old carpet, a single chair,
a deal table, and a small shelf of books made
up the whole contents. On the table stood
a full-length photograph of a woman—I took
no particular notice of the features, but I
remember that a certain gracious gentleness
was the prevailing impression. Beside it were

SIR JOHN BOLI.AMORE.

ROUND THE FIRE,

superstitious feeling has arisen about it in the
household. I assure you that if I were to
repeat to you the tales which are flying about,
tales of mysterious visitors there, and of
voices overheard by the servants, you
might suspect that Sir John had relapsed
into his old ways.”

“ Why do you say re¬
lapsed ? ” I asked.

He looked at me in sur-

“ OUR INTERVIEW WAS A SHORT ONE.”

talk with Richards, the agent, who had never
penetrated into the chamber which chance
had opened to me. That very afternoon he
came to me, all curiosity, and walked up and
down the garden path with me, while my two
charges played tennis upon the lawn beside
us.

“ You hardly realize the exception which
has been made in your favour,” said he.
“ That room has been kept such a mystery,
and Sir John’s visits to it have been so
regular arid consistent, that an almost

prise.

“ Is it possible,” said he,
“ that Sir John Bollamore’s
previous history is unknown
to you ? ”

“ Absolutely.”

“ You astound me. I
thought that every man in
England knew something of
his antecedents. I should
not mention the matter if it
were not that you are now
one of ourselves, and that
the facts might come to
your ears in some harsher
form if I were silent upon
them. I always took it for
granted that you knew that
you were in the service of
“ Devil ’ Bollamore.”

“But why ‘ Devil 5 ? ” I
asked.

“Ah, you are young and
the world moves fast, but
twenty years ago the name
of ‘ Devil’ Bollamore was
one of the best known in
London. He was the leader
of the fastest set, bruiser,
driver, gambler, drunkard—
a survival of the old type, and
as bad as the worst of them.”

I stared at him in amaze¬
ment.

“ What ! ” I cried, “ that
quiet, studious, sad - faced
man ? ”

“ The greatest rip and debauchee in
England ! All between ourselves, Colmore.
But you understand now what I mean when
I say that a woman’s voice in his room might
even now give rise to suspicions.”

“But what can have changed him so ? ”

“ Little Beryl Clare, when she took the
risk of becoming his wife. That was the
turning point. He had got so far that his
own fast set had thrown him over. There is
a world of difference, you know, between a
map who drinks and a drunkard. They all

a large black japanned box and one or two
bundles of letters or papers fastened together
with elastic bands.

Our interview was a short one, for Sir
John Bollamore perceived that I was soaked,
and that I should change without delay.
The incident led, however, to an instructive

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

drink, but they taboo a drunkard. He had
become a slave to it — hopeless and help¬
less. Then she stepped in, saw the
possibilities of a fine man in the wreck,
took her chance in marrying him, though
she might have had the pick of a dozen,
and, by devoting her life to it, brought him
back to manhood and decency. You have
observed that no liquor is ever kept in the
house. There never has been any since her
foot crossed its threshold. A drop of it
would be like blood to a tiger even now.”

“ Then her influence still holds him ? ”

“ That is the wonder of it. When she
died three years ago, we all expected and
feared that he would fall back into his old
ways. She feared it herself, and the thought
gave a terror to death, for she was like a
guardian angel to that man, and lived only
for the one purpose. By the way, did you
see a black japanned box in his room ? ”

“ Yes.”

“ I fancy it contains her letters. If ever
he has occasion to be away, if only for a
single night, he invariably takes his black
japanned box with him. Well, well, Colmore,
perhaps I have told you rather more than I
should, but I shall expect you to reciprocate
if anything of interest should come to your
knowledge.” I could see that the worthy
man was consumed with curiosity and just a
little piqued that I, the new-comer, should
have been the first to penetrate into the
untrodden chamber. But the fact raised me
in his esteem, and from that time onwards I
found myself upon more confidential terms
with him.

And now the silent and majestic figure of
my employer became an object of greater
interest to me. I began to understand that
strangely human look in his eyes, those deep
lines upon his careworn face. He was a
man who was fighting a ceaseless battle,
holding at arm’s length, from morning till
night, a horrible adversary, who was for ever
trying to close with him—an adversary which
would destroy him body and soul could it
but fix its claws once more upon him. As
I watched the grim, round-backed figure
pacing the corridor or walking in the garden,
this imminent danger seemed to take bodily
shape, and I could almost fancy that I saw
this most loathsome and dangerous of all
the fiends crouching closely in his very
shadow, like a half-cowed beast which slinks
beside its keepei, ready at any unguarded
moment to spring at his throat. And the
dead woman, the woman who had spent her
fife iq warding off this danger, took shape

also to my imagination, and I saw her as a
shadowy but beautiful presence which inter¬
vened for ever with arms uplifted to screen
the man whom she loved.

In some subtle way he divined the sym¬
pathy which I had for him, and he showed
in his own silent fashion that he appreciated
it. He even invited me once to share his
afternoon walk, and although no word passed
between us on this occasion, it was a mark of
confidence which he had never shown to any¬
one before. He asked me also to index his
library (it was one of the best private libraries
in England), and I spent many hours in the
evening in his presence, if not in his society,
he reading at his desk and I sitting in a
recess by the window reducing to order the
chaos which existed among his books. In
spite of these closer relations I was never
again asked to enter the chamber in the
turret.

And then came my revulsion ofi feeling.
A single incident changed all my sympathy
to loathing, and made me realize that my
employer still remained all that he had ever
been, with the additional vice of hypocrisy.
What happened was as follows.

One evening Miss Witherton had gone
down to Broadway, the neighbouring village,
tc sing at a concert for some charity, and I,
according to my promise, had walked over to
escort her back. The drive sweeps round
under the eastern turret, and I observed as I
passed that the light was lit in the circular
room. It was a summer evening, and the
window, which was a little higher than our
heads, was open. We were, as it happened,
engrossed in our own conversation at the
moment, and we had paused upon the lawn
which skirts the old turret, when suddenly
something broke in upon our talk and turned
our thoughts away from our own affairs.

It was a voice—the voice undoubtedly of
a woman. It was low—so low that it was
only in that still night air that we could have
heard it, but, hushed as it was, there was no
mistaking its feminine timbre. It spoke
hurriedly, gaspingly for a few sentences, and
then was silent—a piteous, breathless, im¬
ploring sort of voice. Miss Witherton and I
stood for an instant staring at each other.
Then we walked quickly in the direction of
the hall-door.

tf It came through the window,” I said.

''We must not play the part of eaves¬
droppers,” she answered. We must forget
that we have ever heard it.”

There was an absence of surprise in her
manner which suggested a new idea to me, •

ROUND THE FIRE.

“You have heard it before,” I cried.

“ I could not help it. My own room is
higher up on the same turret. It has
happened frequently.”

“ Who can the woman be ? ”

“ I have no idea. I had rather not dis¬
cuss it.”

Her voice was enough to show me what
she thought. But granting that our employer

led a double and dubious life, who could she
be, this mysterious woman who kept him
company in the old tower ? I knew from
my own inspection how bleak and bare a
room it was. She certainly did not live
there. But in that case where did she come

from ? It could not be any one of the house¬
hold. They were all under the vigilant eyes
of Mrs. Stevens. The visitor must come
from without. But how?

And then suddenly I remembered how
ancient this building was, and how probable
that some mediaeval passage existed in it.
There is hardly an old castle without one.
The mysterious room was the basement of
the turret, so that if there were anything of
the sort it would open through the floor.
There were numerous cottages in the imme¬
diate vicinity. The other end of the secret
passage might lie among some tangle of
bramble in the neighbouring copse. I said
nothing to anyone, but I felt that the secret
of my employer lay within my power.

And the more convinced I was of this the
more I marvelled at the manner in which
he concealed his true nature. Often as
I . watched his austere
figure, I asked myself if
it were indeed possible
that such a man should
be living this double life,
and I tried to persuade
myself that my suspicions
might after all prove to
be ill-founded. But there
was the female voice,
there was the secret
nightly rendezvous in the
turret chamber — how
could such facts admit
of an innocent interpre¬
tation ? I conceived a
horror of the man. I
was filled with loathing
at his deep, consistent
hypocrisy.

Only once during all
those months did I ever
see him without that sad
but impassive mask
which he usually pre¬
sented towards his fellow-
man. For an instant I
caught a glimpse of those
volcanic fires which he
had damped down so
long. The occasion was
an unworthy one, for the
object of his wrath was
none other than the aged charwoman whom
I have already mentioned as being the one
person who was allowed within his mysterious
chamber. I was passing the corridor

which led to the turret—for my own room
lay in that direction—when I heard a

“ IT WAS THE VOICE UNDOUBTEDLY OF A WOMAN.”

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

sudden, startled scream, and merged in
it the husky, growling note of a man
who is inarticulate with passion. It was
the snarl of a furious wild beast. Then
I heard his voice thrilling with anger. “You
would dare ! ” he cried. “You would dare
to disobey my directions ! ” An instant later
the charwoman passed me, flying down the
passage, white faced and tremulous, while
the terrible voice thundered behind her.
“ Go to Mrs. Stevens for your money!
Never set foot in Thorpe Place again ! ”

Consumed with curiosity, I could not help
following the woman, and found her round
the corner leaning against the wall and pal¬
pitating like a frightened rabbit.

“ What is the matter, Mrs. Brown ? ” I

fi§ked,

“ It’s master ! ” she gasped. “ Oh ’ow ’e
frightened me! If you ’ad seen ’is eyes,
Mr. Colmore, sir. I thought ’e would ’ave
been the death of me.”

“ But what had you done ? ”

“ Done, sir ! Nothing. At least nothing to
make so much of. Just laid my ’and on that
black box of ’is—’adn’t even opened it, when
in ’e came and you ’eard the way ’e went
on. I’ve lost my place, and glad I am
of it, for I would never trust myself within
reach of ’im again.”

So it was the japanned
box which was the cause
of this outburst — the box
from which he would never
permit himself to be separ¬
ated. What was the con¬
nection, or was there any
connection between this and
the secret visits of the lady
whose voice I had over¬
heard ? Sir John Bollamore’s
wrath was enduring as well
as fiery, for from that day
Mrs. Brown, the charwoman,
vanished from our ken, and
Thorpe Place knew her no
more.

And now I wish to tell
you the singular chance
which solved all these
strange questions and put
my employer’s secret in my
possession. The story may
leave you with some linger¬
ing doubt as to whether
my curiosity did not get the
better of my honour, and
whether I did not conde¬
scend to play the spy. If
you choose to think so I
cannot help it, but can only
assure you that, improbable
as it may appear, the matter
came about exactly as I
describe it.

The first stage in this
denouement was that the
small room on the turret
became uninhabitable. This
occurred through the fall of
the worm-eaten oaken beam
which supported the ceiling. Rotten with
age, it snapped in the middle one morn¬
ing, and brought down a quantity of the
plaster with it. Fortunately Sir John was
not in the room at the time. His precious
box wtts rescued from amongst the debris

‘NEVER SET FOOT IN THORPE PLACE AGAIN!”

ROUND THE FIRE .

and brought into the library, where, hence¬
forward, it was locked within his bureau. Sir
John took no steps to repair the damage, and
I never had an opportunity of searching for
that secret passage, the existence of which I
had surmised. As to the lady, I had thought
that this would have brought her visits to
an end, had I not one evening heard Mr.
Richards asking Mrs. Stevens who the woman
was whom he had overheard talking to Sir
John in the library. I could not catch her
reply, but 1 saw from her manner that it
was not the first time that she had had to
answer or avoid the same question.

“ You’ve heard the voice,, Colmore ? ”
said the agent.

I confessed that I had.

“ And what do you think of it? ”

I shrugged my shoulders, and remarked
that it was no business of mine.

“ Come, come, you are just as curious as
any of us. ' Is it a woman or not ? ”

“ It is certainly a woman.”

“Which room did you hear
it from ? ”

“ From the turret-room, before
the ceiling fell.”

“ But . I heard it from the
library only last night. I passed
the door as I was going to bed, and
I heard something wailing and
praying just as plainly as I hear
you. It may be a woman—

“ Why, what else could it be ? ”

He looked at me hard.

“There are more things in
heaven and earth,” said he. “If
it is a woman, how does she get
there?”

“ I don’t know.”

“ No, nor I. But if it is the
other thing — but there, for a
practical business man at the
end of the nineteenth century
this is rather a ridiculous line of
conversation.” He turned away,
but I saw that he felt even more
than he had said. To all the
old ghost stories of Thorpe Place
a new one was being added
before our very eyes. It may
by this time have taken its per¬
manent place, for though an
explanation came to me, it never
reached the others.

And my explanation came in
this way. I had suffered a
sleepless night from neuralgia,
and about mid-day I had taken

a heavy dose of chlorodyne to alleviate the
pain. At that time I was finishing the index¬
ing of Sir John Bollamore’s library, and it
was my custom to work there from five till
seven. " On this particular day I struggled
against the double effect of my bad night and
the narcotic. I have already mentioned
that there was a recess in the library, and
in this it was my habit to work. I settled
down steadily to my task, but my weariness
overcame me and, falling back upon the
settee, I dropped into a heavy sleep.

How long I slept I do not know, but it
was quite dark when I awoke. Confused
by the chlorodyne which I had taken, I lay
motionless in a semi-conscious state. The
great room with its high walls covered with
books loomed darkly all round me. A dim
radiance from the moonlight came through
the farther window, and against this lighter
background I saw that Sir John Bollamore
was sitting at his study table. His well-set

1 SIR JOHN BOLLAMORE WAS SITTING AT HIS STUDY TABLE.

Vol. xvii .—2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE,

head and clearly cut profile were sharply out¬
lined against the glimmering square behind
him. He bent as I watched him, and I
heard the sharp turning of a key and the
rasping of metal upon metal. As if in a
dream I was vaguely conscious that this was
the japanned box which stood in front
of him, and that he had drawn some¬
thing out of it, something squat and
uncouth, which now lay before him upon
the table. I never realized =— it never
occurred to my bemuddled and torpid brain
that I was intruding upon his privacy, that he
imagined himself to be alone in the room.
And then, just as it rushed upon my horrified
perceptions, and I had half risen to announce
my presence, I heard a strange, crisp, metallic
clicking, and then the voice.

Yes, it was a woman’s voice; there could
not be a doubt of it. But a voice so charged
with entreaty and with yearning love, that it
will ring for ever in my ears. It came with a
curious far-away tinkle, but every word was
clear, though faint - very faint, for they were
the last words of a dying woman.

“ I am not really gone, John,” said the thin,
gasping voice. “ I am here at your very
elbow, and shall be until we meet once more.
I die happy to think that morning and night
you will hear my voice. Oh, John, be strong,
be strong, until we meet again.”

I say that I had risen in order to announce
my presence, but I could not do so while the
voice was sounding. I could only remain
half lying, half sitting, paralyzed, astounded,
listening to those yearning distant musical
words. And he—he was so absorbed that
even if I had spoken he might not have heard
me. But with the silence of the voice came
my half articulated apologies and explanations.
He sprang across the room, switched on the
electric light, and in its white, glare I saw
him, his eyes gleaming with anger, his face
twisted with passion, as the hapless char¬
woman may have seen him weeks before.

“ Mr. Colmore ! ” he cried. “ You here !
What is the meaning of this, sir? ”

With halting words I explained it all, my
neuralgia, the narcotic, my luckless sleep and
singular awakening. As he listened the glow
of anger faded from his face, and the sad, im¬
passive mask closed once more over his
features.

“ My secret is yours, Mr. Colmore,” said
he. “ I have only myself to blame for relax¬
ing my precautions. Half confidences arc
worse than no confidences, and so you may
know all since you know so much. The
story may go where you will when I have

passed away, but until then I rely upon your
sense of honour that no human soul shall
hear it from your lips. I am proud still —
God help me ! — or, at least, I am proud
enough to resent that pity which this story
would draw upon me. I have smiled at
envy, and disregarded hatred, but pity is
more than I can tolerate.

“ You have heard the source from which the
voice comes—that voice which has, as I
understand, excited so much curiosity in my
household. I am aware of the rumours to
which it has given rise. These speculations,
whether scandalous or superstitious, are such
as I can disregard and forgive. What I
should never forgive would be a disloyal
spying and eavesdropping in order to satisfy
an illicit curiosity. But of that, Mr. Colmore,
I acquit you.

“ When I was a young man, sir, many years
younger than you are now, I was launched
upon town without a friend or adviser,
and with a purse which brought only too
many false friends and false advisers to my
side. I drank deeply of the wine of life—if
there is a man living who has drunk more
deeply he is not a man whom I envy. My
purse suffered, my character suffered, my
constitution suffered, stimulants became a
necessity to me, I was a creature from whom
my memory recoils. And it was at that time,
the time of my blackest degradation, that
God sent into my life the gentlest, sweetest
spirit that ever descended as a ministering
angel from above. She loved me, broken as
I was, loved me, and spent her life in making
a man once more of that which had degraded
itself to the level of the beasts.

“ But a fell disease struck her, and she
withered away before my eyes. In the hour
of her agony it was never of herself, of her
own sufferings and her own death, that she
thought. It was all of me. The one pang
which her fate brought to her was the fear
that when her influence was removed I should
revert to that which I had been. It was in
vain that I made oath to her that no drop of
wine would ever cross my lips. She knew
only too well the hold that the devil had
upon me—she who had striven so to loosen
it—and it haunted her night and day the
thought that my soul might again be within
his grip.

“ It was from some friend’s gossip of the
sick room that she heard of this invention—
this phonograph—and with the quick insight
of a loving woman she saw how she might
use it for her ends. She sent me to London
to procure the best which money could buy.

ROUND THE FIRE.

When I returned she lay actually in the
throes of death. And with her last breath
—the very last that she breathed upon
earth — she whispered this message into it,
a message to strengthen my resolves and to
retain her influence upon my actions. Into
her ear I whispered that twice a day for ever
afterwards I should listen to her dear voice,
and so, smiling at the success of her plan,
she passed gently away.

“So now you have my secret, Mr. Colmore,
and you understand why this japanned box
and that which it contains is - more to me
than all my ancestral home. I trust you,
and I believe you to be worthy of my trust.

But after this the sight of you would be
painful, to me, and so good-bye ! You will
find no cause to regret having left my service,
but you will understand that we must never
meet again.”

So this was the last time that I was ever
destined to see Sir John Bollamore, and I
left him standing in his library, with his
hand upon the instrument which brought
him that ever-recurring, intangible, and yet
intimate reminder from the woman whom
he loved. You may have read about his
death in a carriage accident last Midsummer.
I do not fancy that it was a very unwelcome
event to him.

Illustrated Interviews.

LXII.—MADAME MELBA. By Percy Cross Standing.

MADAME MELBA AS SHE FIRST APPEARED IN GRAND OPERA.—GILDA IN “ RIGOI.ETTO ”
From a Photo, by] Brussels, October 15, 1887. [j. Gam, Brussels.

O an observant student of the
world’s genius it is a reflection,
not without a peculiar interest
of its own, that the Australian
Continent has so far produced
but one woman-singer of the
first rank. Of poets whose genius is as un¬
doubted as their place in the world’s literature
is certain Australia has given us at least two,
in Henry Kendall and the gifted but ill-fated
Adam Lindsay Gordon. To the drama this,
the “ least contiguous ” of the four continents,
has contributed Haddon Chambers — though
the creator of “Captain Swift” and “The
Idler ” has now dwelt among us so long
as to be regarded as a fully naturalized
“Englander.” The department of imagin¬

ative literature is already represented by
quite a little army from “down under,” as
the eminent names of Mrs. Campbell Praed,
“Tasma,” Mr. Rolf Boldrewood, Miss Ada
Cambridge, Miss Ethel Turner, Mr. Guy
Boothby, and the late Marcus Clarke bear
eloquent testimony ; whilst the field of critical
and biographical writing finds a worthy repre¬
sentative in Mr. Patchett Martin.

But Melba stands alone. Towering head
and shoulders over every other aspirant to
the highest honours of grand opera, the
retirement of Madame Patti from the operatic
field has left “the Australian Nightingale”
undisputed ruler of an empire probably the
proudest in the sum of this planet’s most
desirable possessions. Yet these are honours

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

becomingly and graciously worn by one who,
scarcely a decade ago, was little more than a
name to the patrons and supporters of the
opera.

As I sit in her salon to-day, and chat with
this queenly woman, whose greatest charm
assuredly lies in her consideration for others,
I wonder whether she ever recalls that little
white-robed girl (herself) who, in far-off Mel¬
bourne, in the dead of night, startled her
parents and brought them downstairs by her
playing of Beethoven’s “ Moonlight Sonata.”
It is a pretty story, with a prettier sequel.
For the parents of that little girl had not
the heart to chide
their offspring for
her “ precocity ”

(that unmeaning
word in which the
beginnings of
genius are so often
concealed), but
rather did they
coax her back to
bed as they mar¬
velled over what
they had heard.

Surely they must,
even at that early
day, have had
some faint glim¬
mering of the
future in store for
the coming prima
donna !

“ Perhaps they
did -— I do not
know,” says
Madame Melba,
dreamily. “But
one thing I know
for certain — that
their daughter did
not cherish any
such aspirations
for a long time to
come. I went
quietly on with my education —no, not
my musical education, that came later
— until my marriage, which took place at
the early age • of seventeen. Stop, though !
I was entirely forgetting to tell you the
story of what I call ‘ my first appear¬
ance on any stage.’ It took place at

the Town Hall, Richmond, which is a
suburb of Melbourne, and I was aged six at
the time! What did I sing ? Let me see,
now! Yes, I sang ‘ Shells of the Ocean ’
first, followed by ‘ Cornin’ thro’ the Rye.’ It

was a great occasion, as you may imagine,
and I am by no means certain that I am not
prouder of it than of anything I have done
since.”

On the question as to whence—if traceable
at all—Madame Melba derives her voice and
natural musical gifts, she told me that her
mother was an accomplished musician. In
addition to being a beautiful pianist, she
played also the organ and the harp. Thus
it was that the future prima donna was reared
so to speak in the lap of Music. Her mother
was her first teacher of the piano, and after¬
wards her studies were aided by the exertions
of her aunts Alice
and Lizzie.

“Even as a
child of three or
four,” she con¬
tinued, “ I was so
passionately de¬
voted to music
that I remember
frequently crawling
under the piano
and remaining
quiet there for
hours while listen¬
ing to my mother’s
playing. Yes, my
mother sang also,
though she had
not a particularly
notable voice. But
her sister, my
‘Aunt Lizzie,’ as
I called her, pos¬
sessed a soprano
voice of extra¬
ordinary beauty
and quality. To
this day I can
remember my
aunt’s absolute
control of her
voice, and the
beauty and ease
of her execution even in the highest
pianissimo passages. Indeed, I feel sure
my Aunt Lizzie would have enjoyed a
brilliant career as a public singer, had she
adopted it.”

It should be mentioned that the diva's
father, Mr. David Mitchell, is a squatter
resident in the Colony of Victoria, and that
his several stations are far removed from
important townships. The family now reside
at Colbin Abbin Estate; but in the days
when Melba was a child they lived at “ Steel’s

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Flat/’ another of her father’s estates, where
she was born and brought up, with intermit¬
tent visits to Melbourne.

I was interested to find that the subject of
this interview can also trace the gift of music
on the paternal side of the house. To this
day her father sings in the local choir, and
his daughter told me she well remembered
his voice as a deep basso of beautiful
timbre. He has always been passionately
fond of music, and is. in addition to his
vocal talent (to quote his daughter’s own
expression), “a fiddler of no mean ability.”
Madame Melba speaks in the most affection¬
ate terms of both her parents. Her mother
died while the great singer was in her teens,
but Melba cherishes many sweet recollections
of her.

“ She was a natural artist—not as regards
music only, for one remembers it in the
general expression of her life. She was,
among other things, a charming painter on
china, and the dessert-service still in use
at home was decorated by her brush.

“ Did my father also foster my love of
music ? Yes, indeed he did, to the utmost
of his power. When I was quite a baby it
was*my great joy, on Sunday afternoons, to
sit on my father’s knee at the harmonium.
He would blow the bellows with his feet,
while singing a bass accompaniment to the
hymn which I would pick out on the key¬
board with one finger.”

Thus, finding that the Australian singer
inherits the gift of song from either side of
her family, I inquired whether this passion
for music did not begin to take shape at a
very tender age.

“ In illustration that that was so,” she
answered, “ I remember once our family
moving into ‘winter quarters ’ at one of my
father’s outlying stations. I was ten years
old at the time, but I know I felt
furious, on arrival, to find that there was
no piano in the house. My gentle mother
consoled me with the gift of a co?icertina ,
which I taught myself to play during
the three months that we remained there!
In those sequestered places, in the case
ot country houses very far removed from
a church or chapel, it is customary for a
clergyman or lay preacher to come along
on Sundays and preach to the family, the
servants, and station hands—often quite a
large congregation, particularly at shearing¬
time.

“One Sunday—I was then, perhaps,
thirteen years old—we were visited by a
worthy man, who chanced to be a par¬

ticularly poor preacher. At the conclu¬
sion of his very long and (as we children
thought) somewhat wearisome discourse, he
suggested that we should sing a hymn.
There was a harmonium in the room, and
my mother asked me to play a familiar hymn.
I accordingly seated myself, but, in revenge
for having been so bored, I played—to the
horror of some and the secret delight of
others—a music-hall ditty which had suc¬
ceeded in penetrating our wilderness ! It
was called, ‘You Should See Me Dance the
Polka.’ In the sequel, I received the well-
merited punishment of being sent to bed for
the remainder of the day.

“It must have been about the end of the
same year that I had, what I thought at the
time, a very fearsome adventure indeed ! It
happened at Melbourne. I was learning to
play the organ, and I had permission occa¬
sionally to practise on the great organ in the
Scots Church. Late one afternoon I ceased
playing, and fell into a reverie. When, at
last, 1 proceeded to leave the church, I
found, to my horror, I was locked in 1
My playing having ceased for some time, the
sexton had concluded I was gone, and had
locked up the church and left. You cannot
conceive the agony of mind I endured. The
church was very dark, and the pulpit and
altar in their grey dust-cloths looked, to
my frightened imagination, like monstrous
ghosts. What should I do? .... At last
the sexton returned—by the 'merest chance
he had forgotten something, which he came
back to fetch, and so I obtained my release.”

About two years after her marriage,
namely, at the age of nineteen, Melba began
concert singing. At first she sang as an
amateur; but so rapidly did she betray
talents of an extraordinarily high order, that
she was strongly recommended to adopt the
vocal art as a profession. Upon this advice
she acted, and came to England to study.
The rest is history.

It is, however, history of an exceedingly
interesting character. It will be seen that,
in shaping her public career, Madame Melba
unconsciously moved in cycles of two years.
Thus, she was married at seventeen. At
nineteen she commenced tossing publicly.
At twenty-one she came to Europe in order
to study the art she had elected to follow.
At twenty-three occurred her debut on the
operatic stage.

So far as operatic England is concerned,
the distinction of introducing Melba to the
Covent Garden public belongs to the late
Sir Augustus Harris, who subsequently wrote

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

a rather remarkable
letter on the subject
of the Australian
debutante's quickly
won popularity.

Madame Melba’s
initial appearance
on the Covent
Garden stage took
place in May, 1888,
as the ill-fated
heroine of Doni¬
zetti’s “Lucia di
Lammermoor.” Her
success, both with
the critics and with
the public, was so
spontaneous and
overwhelming, that
her engagement for
the next (1889)

London season was
rendered inevitable.

The new prim a
donna's principal
appearance of 1889
was in Gounod’s
“ Romeo et Juliette,”
while her perform¬
ance in Verdi’s
“ Rigoletto” ex¬
hibited how rapidly,
to quote Mr. Parker’s
“ Opera Under
Augustus Harris,”

“ Madame
popularity
creasing

country.” In 1890 she created at Covent Garden
the character of Ophelia in Dr. Ambroise
Thomas’s “ Hamlet,” which she had the advant¬
age of rehearsing with the composer himself.

In 1893 Melba went to America, to meet
with a wholly unprecedented success ; but in
’94 she was back at Covent Garden, to charm
huge audiences with her Nedda in Leon¬
cavallo’s “ Pagliacci,” and her Marguerite in
“ Faust.” Since then the cantatrice has
appeared with regularity during the London
opera season. Two of her most interesting
appearances have been in “ Carmen ” three
years ago, when that opera was performed
with the extraordinarily strong cast of Madame
Calve as Carmen , Madame Melba as Michae/a,
and M. Alvarez as Don Jose; and in “ Les
Huguenots” in 1896, when Albani was the
Valentina and Melba the Margherita de Valois.
In that season, by the way, a gloom was cast
over English musical life by the deaths of

Melba’s
was in-
in this

MADAME MELBA IN “LAKME,” 1890.
From a Photo, by Dupont, Ttrusaels.

MADAME MELBA AS LUCIA DI LAMMEKMOOR, 1891.
From a Photo, by Nadar, Paris.

Sir Joseph Barn by
and Sir Augustus
Harris, the latter
being a personal
friend of Madame
Melba, and of whom
she cherishes many
pleasant recollections.

But then, as I told
the Australian prima
donna , in her case
“pleasant recollec¬
tions ” must of neces¬
sity multiply them¬
selves, by virtue of
the numbers of the
world’s great ones
with whom her art
and her remarkable
gifts have brought
her in contact. And
yet she remains so
wholly and entirely a
“ womanly woman,”
that I verily believe
she values the esteem
and admiration of the
lowliest peasant as
highly as that of the
great ones of the earth.

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE ..

In respect of the personal friendships to
which I have just made reference, the diva
has delightful remembrances of masters like
the veteran Verdi, Charles Gounod (with
whom she had the privilege of rehearsing
his “ Faust 55 and “ Romeo et Juliette ”), poor
Goring Thomas, the creator of “ Esmeralda,”
Tosti, and Puccini. In the case of the
latter composer, she studied her part in his
“La Boheme” (a new assumption) with him
in Southern Italy last summer ; and, if all
that we hear be true, she is destined to win
fresh laurels in the same composer’s newest
work, “ La Tosca,” in which Puccini does for
Sardou’s tragic story what Verdi has done
for Shakespeare’s “ Othello.”

Nellie Melba is a woman of rare enthu¬
siasms. In conversation with me, she could
not say too much in praise of Madame
Matilde Marchesi—the only singing-teacher
she has ever had—and whom she speaks of
in terms of warmest affection and sympathy.

I asked the prima donna whether she has
ever experienced the excitement and danger
of a theatre fire. “ Yes, on two occasions,”
she told me; “ in San Francisco and in
London. In both cases the danger was
happily averted. At Covent Garden the
outbreak happened actually on the stage
during a performance of ‘Faust,’ arid the
curtain had to be rung down. I chanced
to be in the ‘wings’ at the time, and while
they were battling with the flames behind
the curtain, I came in front and begged
the people to remain seated. Fortunately
that most terrible of calamities, a theatre
panic, was averted. As soon as I found
myself behind the scences once more I com¬
mitted the weakness of fainting.”

There have been, not unnaturally, some
striking incidents connected with Melba’s
enormous popularity at the Paris Opera
House. There is one of them, however, to
which a pathetic interest attaches by reason
of the comparatively recent death of Madame
Carnot, who figured in it in very sympathetic
fashion. The opera was “ Lucia di Lammer-
moor ” —one of Melba’s greatest, if not her
very greatest assumption. It happened
that the tenor, Monsieur Cossira, arrived
at the Opera House feeling very unwell, but
apparently recovering before the opera began
he decided to go on. Early in the first act,
however, he almost completely lost his voice !
When it came to the duet with Lucia in the
first act, it utterly failed him. The prima
donna ., full of sympathy for his difficulty, for a
time sang his music as well as her own ; but
ultimately the curtain had to be rung down,

and for a few moments it appeared as though
the performance could not proceed, since—
surely a thing unprecedented at the Paris
Opera House—Monsieur Cossira was not
provided with an understudy ! As luck
would have it, though, among the audience
was M. Engel, who had sung the part with
Melba, not long before, in Brussels. Grasp¬
ing the situation, he went behind the scenes
and proffered his services, which were gladly
and gratefully accepted. The performance
proceeded, and for several nights thereafter
M. Engel sang the part.

“At the close of the evening,” added
Madame Melba, in telling me of the incident,
“ Madame Carnot sent for me. It was during
Monsieur Carnot’s reign at the Elysee, and
so his wife was occupying the Presidential box
at the Opera. Being a woman of very quick
perception, Madame Carnot had observed my
efforts at covering the confusion of my poor
colleague. I can never forget her kind words
to me then, nor shall I readily forget the
sorrow I felt afterwards on hearing the news
of President Carnot’s terrible end, and of
her own death subsequently.”

By the time this interview appears in print,
Madame Melba will be in the thick of her
fifth visit to the United States. Her previous
operatic tours of the American Continent
have been full of varied and interesting
experiences. One of the most characteristic
“ Melba stories ” that 1 know dates from her
last tour but one. It was at St. Louis, where,
thanks to a late train, the diva and her
company arrived only a very little time before
the hour fixed for the commencement. There
was, in fact, only just time for the artists to
make for their respective dressing-rooms.
But Melba, looking down from a coign of
vantage into the orchestra, observed, to her
dismay and annoyance, that her musicians
were in morning dress. She promptly sent
for the chef d'o?xhestre . The poor man
expostulated, remonstrated; they had but a
few minutes before come off the cars; there
was no time, etc. But Melba was firm. “If
the gentlemen of my orchestra do not choose
to appear in evening dress, I shall refuse to
go on the stage. I owe a duty to the public
as well as to myself.”

This inexorable mandate had its effect,
and the musicians were soon seen filing out
of the orchestra, to return a few minutes
later, suitably clad in the evening garb of
comparative civilization. Then the curtain
rose and the opera commenced—only a very
little behind time. The incident did not,
however, pass unrecognised. The critics of

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

the Press had seen the musicians disappear
and re-appear, and correctly surmising the
cause of their “ quick change,” the result
was a series of graceful little
articles in the St. Louis papers
complimenting the popular fav¬
ourite upon her sense of the
fitness of things.

An incident without precedent
on the concert stage marked the
great concert which Melba gave

Kruse, the solo violinist—all were not only
Australians, but Victorians by birth.

Immediately after her few but brilliant

MADAME MELBA AS JULIETTE,

J892.

From a Photo, by Dupont , Brussels.

From a Photo, by Reutlinger, Paris.

at the Albert Hall, on November
to signalize her departure for her present
trans-Atlantic tour. Of the three principal
performers— i.e., Madame Melba herself, Miss
Ada Crossley, the contralto, and Mr. Johann

From a Photo, by Iienque et Cie , Paris.

appearances at Covent Garden last season,
Madame Melba rented a charmingly-situated
house, called “ Fernley,” near the river at

Vol. xvii .—3

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

MADAME MELBA, Mh*. HADDON CHAMBERS, AND MR. BERTRAM MACKENNAL.
From a Photo, by II. Gude , Maidenhead.

Maidenhead. Here she entertained many
friends during the month of August. A
very interesting “group” photograph of
three distinguished Australians—Melba, Mr.
Haddon Chambers, and Mr. Bertram
MacKennal—taken at that time on the lawn
at Fernley, is shown at the top of this page.
It will be interesting to your readers that
the last-named distinguished compatriot of
Madame Melba’s is executing a bust of the
diva , which she has decided to present to
the Public Library of Melbourne. A bust of
the Melbourne Melba, by the Melbourne
MacKennal, is obviously an artistic event of
peculiar interest.

By the way, the popular morning “ daily ”
that unwittingly represented Melba as an

athletic kind of lady, skilled in the gentle art
of rowing, was sadly in error! Far and
away the most interesting episode of the stay
at Fernley was a visit which the prima donna
and some members of her house-party paid
to the grave of the poet Gray in Stoke Poges
churchyard. Here, it will be remembered,
Gray wrote his beautiful “ Elegy ”; and here,
too, Melba (who, I omitted to say, is an
accomplished organist, and often used to
play that instrument in the Scots Church at
Melbourne) expressed a desire to try the
organ in the charming old church of Stoke
Poges.

Thereby hangs this tale: The rector, on
it being represented to him that “ Madame
Melba would like to play the organ,” court-

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

J 9

eously handed over the necessary keys, and
Melba gave great pleasure to her audience
of half-a-dozen friends by playing and singing
for them a selection of pieces, which in¬
cluded the Gounod “ Ave Maria,” and ended
with the National Anthem. Asked by one
of the party how she had enjoyed the
impromptu sacred concert, the old lady
who was in charge of the church, and whose
services had been requisitioned to blow the
organ, enthusiastically rejoined, “ Oh, it
were all beautiful, m’m, but ‘ God Save the
Queen 5 were best of all ! ”

Madame Melba is fortunate in having
some one member of her family — a brother
or sister, generally speaking — to accompany
her on her travels. During her last American
tour she had for companions both a sister
and a brother —Miss Dora and Mr. Ernest
Mitchell — and she still speaks of the regret
with which she parted from them when they
were obliged to return to their Antipodean
home about the end of the last London season.
She says she is not less fortunate in having a
man like Mr. Charles A. Ellis (originally
the business manager of the Boston Sym¬
phony Orchestra) to personally conduct her
trans-Atlantic tours. The present one will be
very much extended, and will involve the
traversing of many thousands of mites by
the diva and her company. The principal
members of that company are Ternina, Zelie
de Lussan, and' Gadski, Alvarez, Bonnard,
Pandolfini, Kraus, and Bonderesque, and the
orchestra is controlled by Signor Seppilli and
Mr. Walter Damrosch. As for Melba’s reper¬
toire, it comprises not only two roles quite new
to her—“Martha” and “La Boheme” — but
also “Lucia,” “Hamlet,” “ Manon,” “ Les
Huguenots,” “ La Traviata,” “ Rigoletto,”
“ Faust,” “ Romeo et Juliette,” and “ II Bar-
biere di Siviglia” — in the last-named of which
she scored such a shining success at Covent
Garden last season. While on the subject of
America, I may mention that Madame Melba
seriously meditates refusing an offer for a
season in South America, which I take to be
the most dazzling and tempting ever made
to a prima donna. She whimsically says
that she thinks she would rather spend the
greater part of 1899 in Europe, although
she looks forward with pleasure to a visit
to South America later on.

I am reminded of one more “ Melba
anecdote.” Two or three years ago she
took a party of friends to see the interior
of La Scala, the noble opera-house where
many of her triumphs have been won.
Throwing open the door of a dressing-

room, their cicerone exclaimed, “This is
where the celebrated Melba used to dress ! ”
The great singer’s friends began to laugh,
but she, looking hard at the man, quietly
asked him, “ What! don’t you know me ? ”
And then this son of Italy perceived that,
sans voice and sans diamonds though she
might be, she still was “ Melba.”

It is, I think, illustrative of Madame
Melba’s large humanity that the simpler and
more sympathetic the anecdote, the better is
she pleased to tell it. For example, “one
touch of nature ” is to her much more than
to tell of her many meetings with Royalty—
of her brilliant career as queen of opera— of
her impressions of the many great ones of
the world into whose society she has been
thrown. Of her debut in opera she readily
speaks, for must it not always rank as one of
her pleasantest memories ? It occurred at
the Brussels Opera House, and at the age of
twenty-two. Not at that time knowing French,
Melba was permitted to sing in Italian, while
the other artists sang French—an unpre¬
cedented concession to a debutante on the
part of the local opera authorities. On that
memorable evening, the next box to the one
occupied by some friends and relatives
of Madame Melba contained a lady and
gentleman. At the close of the first act,
the latter asked his companion as to her
opinion of the debutante, when the lady
was heard to reply, “ Debutante! Non¬
sense ! I heard her in Madrid ten years
ago. She was an awful failure, and she's
forty if she's a day ! ”

“ Did you feel any resentment when you
heard the story ? ” I asked.

“ Not in the least,” replied Madame Melba,
laughing merrily, “albeit in those early days
I had not grown accustomed, as, alas! I
have since, to hearing strangely false reports
about myself—reports sometimes amazing,
sometimes absurd, and sometimes, I fear,
malicious. Besides, I was in far too good a
humour with the public success I had
achieved to feel angry; and if the story
appears in your article, and the lady sees it,
I shall feel amply avenged.”

Two incidents in connection with her first
American tour were related to me so feel¬
ingly by the prima donna , that I must do my
best to reproduce them. The first occurred
in New York. Melba had been practising
her part at her hotel one afternoon. Just
as she had finished, and was coming out
of her rooms, she encountered a strange
lady, whose rooms opened into the same
corridor. The unknown approached her.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

and said, “ Madame, I think you would be
touched to hear what my little boy said just
now. He is lying in bed getting over an
illness; and when you began to sing he
lifted his tiny forefinger and whispered,
c Hist, mummy ! Birdie !’ ”

The second incident referred to occurred
one snowy night as the diva was leaving the
stage-door of the Opera House at Phila¬
delphia. An old lady, very neatly attired,
but evidently not in affluent circumstances,
was waiting for her as she crossed the foot¬
way to her carriage. When Madame Melba

says she will never forget, “ God bless your
beautiful heart, my dear ! ”

My interesting visit to Madame Melba
terminated with, on my part, a very natural
regret. I carried away with me an indelible im¬
pression—the impression of a queenly woman,
an incomparable artist, bearing her unrivalled
gifts and her regal position in the world of
music with a simplicity and a womanly
modesty which, while unable to enhance their
value, add a singular grace and charm to
their possession. And I found it a pleasing
reflection that I had been accorded an

appeared the old lady remarked, “ Madame,
I have just heard you sing, and I’ve waited
here in the hope that you will let me take
your hand.” Melba, deeply touched, im¬
pulsively kissed the old lady on either
cheek. I his salutation won from its
recipient these simple words, which Melba

audience of a queen who is delightfully
unconscious of her sovereignty, and who,
even if robbed of the gifts which now enchant
the world, would still retain those qualities
which enchant her friends—her bright intelli¬
gence, her ever-ready sympathies, and her
true womanliness.

1 .

NOTHER present, Honor ?
I thought you had really
received the last.”

“ So did I,” replied Honor,
sitting up in her low chair,
and beginning to untie the
string that was round the small parcel.
“ People are very kind ; wonderfully
kind.”

Mrs. Latimer looked up quickly at the
sound of the dejected voice. She was a
slight, sweet - looking woman, in widow’s
dress, whose face, despite its never-varying
sadness, bore traces of great beauty. The
present proved to be a very beautiful pendant
of emeralds and diamonds. Mrs. Latimer,
having admired it as it lay on its satin bed,
handed it back to her daughter.

“ So kind of your Uncle James,” she said,
as she did so, watching meantime, with
puzzled uneasiness, Honor’s listless finger¬
ing of the jewel-case.

“ Very kind ! ” remarked the girl, tilting
her chin somewhat superciliously. “ Am I
not marrying a rich man ? If Ronald had
been poor, how would Uncle James have
treated me ? ”

“ Honor, Honor,” said her mother, a pained
look crossing her face, “ how very unlike you
to be so bitter.”

Honor crossed over to where her mother
sat and dropped down on the rug beside her,
and taking one of her mother’s hands pressed
it to her cheek.

“ He thinks it really, little mother, only you

are too good to see it, and know too that I
love Ronald so dearly that I’d marry him if
he hadn’t a second coat to put on. Uncle
James, of all people ! ”—she threw the case
into the chair she had just vacated, her blue
eyes shining and hard—“ Uncle James, who
might have done so much, who might have
saved his nephew from destruction by holding
out a helping hand. Poor Jim ! ”

Her clear voice broke for a moment, then
she pointed to a table in the corner that was
covered with wedding presents.

“ I’d give them all for one little note from
Jim saying he was sorry and was coming to
us. Just imagine if he came home and sat
with us here in this very room ! I cannot
get him out of my thoughts to-night. Per¬
haps, somewhere, he is thinking of us.”

Mrs. Latimer sank back in her chair, the
tears coursing down her face.

“ I pray night and morning that he may
come back to us, and it seems as though
God turned a deaf ear to all my pleadings.
1 dream of him, Honor, so often, our hand¬
some boy, as he was before he went astray,
and the awakening seems more than I can
bear.”

A pang shot through Honor’s heart as she
looked up into the fragile face, and she
regretted having been carried away to speak
of the prodigal.

“ He will come back to us sooner or later,”
she said, hastily ; “ I am certain of it. He is
too fond of us to go far astray. The threats
Uncle James used terrified him.”

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

“ I am almost sorry we left the other
house,” Mrs. Latimer said, presently.
“ Suppose he came and found strangers
occupying our place ? ”

“ He has only to ask in the neighbourhood
to find us no farther than the next road,”
said Honor. “ Don’t let that worry you. He
will come home to us some day.”

She spoke with a cheerfulness she was far
from experiencing ; the thought had often
occurred to her that Jim, her only brother,
must be dead. Heedless and headstrong he
might be, but he had always possessed a
warm heart, and would not have left them
to anxiety for so long. Twice her wedding
had been postponed, but the prodigal still
delayed, and in a few days her marriage
would be an accomplished fact.

Presently Mrs. Latimer said “good-night”
and went to bed. After lighting her candle
and watching her up the staircase, Honor
returned to the room
in which they had
spent the evening.

An unbearable rest¬
lessness was upon her,
and she could settle
to nothing, though
there were notes to
be written and a host
of other things to be
done.

She heard the ser¬
vants troop up to bed,
and then a silence fell
upon the house, only
broken by the melan¬
choly soughing of the
wind among the trees
in the garden. The
loneliness and silence
told after a time, and
she rose to follow
her mother’s example,
though sleep was the
farthest thing from her
thoughts. She exam¬
ined the window fasten¬
ings, and picking up
the case containing the
pendant, placed it
among the presents
on the table. The
thought occurred to
her that there ought
to be a place in which to lock up the
valuables, but in her preoccupation the
fact troubled her little. Jim was the one
absorbing thought, ousting even Ronald

from her mind. A mental picture of Jim,
destitute and starving, rose before her con¬
tinually, embittering her life, and she could
look forward to nothing until she was at rest
about him.

She looked in at her mother on the way to
her own room, and found her sleeping tran¬
quilly. At the sight of the thin cheek on
the pillow, Honor’s heart contracted pain¬
fully ; her mother grew paler and more
fragile day by day, and the doctors had said
that in the weak state of her heart a sudden
shock might prove fatal. A tear dropped on
the thin hand lying outside the counterpane,
and Honor crept away to her own room.
When ready for bed she lay in the
darkness, feeling every nerve acutely on
the alert.

The clock in the hall below ticked
solemnly and struck the hour from time to
time, and Honor could hear the faint sound
of the cuckoo. She
remembered the little
bird as long as she
could remember any¬
thing ; from babyhood
it had been the delight
of herself and Jim,
with its perky, imper¬
tinent manner, and the
brisk way in which
it bounced out and
in again. Hot tears
blinded Honor’s eyes
and soaked into her
pillow.

There came a faint
sound from below, so
faint as only to make
the stillness more
noticeable. The wind
moaned round the
house, but fitfully, as
if a storm were gather¬
ing at a distance.
Honor half sat up in
bed, straining her ear
to listen. There was
not a stir in' the
house, yet she felt
convinced that some¬
one shared her vigil.
Fearing her mother
might be ill, and
yet not wishing to
disturb her if she slept, she drew herself
noiselessly out of bed, and groped for her
dressing-gown without striking a light. On
her way she looked into the wide hall below.

BIS HOME- COMBS! G

A faint glimmer illumined it, and her eyes
soon became accustomed to the dim light.
Someone stood facing the clock. Click!
the doors flew open, and out sprang the
cuckoo.

One, two, three. The doors closed again
There was a faint sound, which might have
been a box of matches falling on the tiled
floor. It was followed by a smothered ex¬
clamation. The figure stole away in the
direction of the morning-room, where she
and her mother had lately been sitting.
Honor remained in the dark motionless,
wondering what she had better do. All the
servants were women, and to awaken them
meant rousing her mother, and that she
dare not do.

She gathered her dressing-gown closely
round her and crept noiselessly from stair

to stair, quivering all over as they creaked
under her bare feet, but never pausing until
she stood at the half-open door of the
morning-room and looked in. What she
saw froze her into immovability. A film
swam before her eyes. It was Jim ! The

prodigal had returned, but why in this way?
What could it mean ? She rubbed her eyes
incredulously. There was another man
standing near the window, but it was upon
Jim her glance was fixed with reluctant,
fascinated horror.

Jim leaned against the mantelpiece, his
face was white and drawn, and in his eyes
was reproduced some of the incredulity of
Honor’s.

“ I can’t, I tell you,” he spoke in a low voice,
that yet came clearly to the listener. “ I
promised, as it was to be the last time, but I
break my word -I must get out of this, I tell
you. That clock ! My God ! what I’d give
not to feel such a scoundrel! ”

“ Clock ? What are you raving about ? ”
said the other. “What’s wrong with the
clock ? They must strike, I suppose !
Come on, let’s get out of this.
What’s given you such a scare?
You might have seen a ghost.”

“ So I have, the place is full of
them. 1 must go; the very air
stifles me.” He stood upright and
moved towards the door.

“ Not a foot until you’ve done
your share,” replied the other,
advancing, and Honor could see his
evil, dissipated face; “ don’t desert
an old chum.”

“ I wish to Heaven I had years
ago, Hammersley. You’ve been my
curse ever since I’ve known you.
Let’s clear out.”

Honor started at the name, that
of an old school-fellow. She pushed
the door open farther, and the light
fell full upon her, disclosing her
white face with its glittering aureole
of hair, and the blue eyes wide with
pain.

Hammersley dropped the trinket
he held with a little sharp tinkle,
and drew back into the shade
shamefacedly. But Honor never
noticed him, all her glance was for
Jim, who stood rigidly upright,
staring at her as if she were a
visitant from the grave.

“ Honor ! ” the words came with
difficulty from his parched throat.
“ You 1 What does it mean ? ”

Honor advanced a step nearer.

“ Mean ? ” She spoke in a clear, relentless
voice, half mad with the disgrace of it all.
“ Mean ? It means that you have sunk so
low as to rob your mother and sister of a few
valuables. It means that you have broken

“the i.ight fell full upon her.”

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

into your mothers house like a common

thief. No, no-” Her voice vibrated

with a sharp throb of pain “ even the lowest,
the most degraded, would think twice before
robbing his own.”

The light showed clearly all the misery of
Jim’s handsome, haggard young face.

“ I swear to you —he began, but Honor
went on speaking, her voice low with con¬
centrated scorn, and he drew back under the
lash of her glance.

“ Why did you not die years ago ? Only
to-night we were talking of you, praying that
you might return, and this is how God
answers our prayers ! ”

She pointed to the table, and Jim’s head
sank lower.

“Take them all if you want them, but go. ’

He moved blindly
towards the door, and
as he reached it, a foot¬
step sounded along
the passage, and Mrs.

Latimer appeared.

Before Honor could
stir she had caught
sight of Jim, and put¬
ting down the light she
carried, she made a
little run forward, and
put her arms round
his neck.

“ God bless you, my
own boy. I knew you
would come,” she said,
and fell inertly with
her cheek against his.

Above his mother’s
head, Jim’s eyes met

those of Honor, in anguished appeal. As
he stood iiwiuing his mother in his arms his
punishment seemed greater than he could
bear.

A fresh fear took possession of Honor, and
for a moment she dared not ascertain the
worst. Had not the doctors talked of a
sudden shock ?

“ Bring her here,” she said, indicating a
couch close by ; “ she must never know, poor,
poor mother ! ”

In the bustle that ensued Hammersley
made good his escape, unnoticed by anyone.
Honor applied restoratives, and after a long
time Mrs. Latimer came back to conscious¬
ness. Her glance sought for Jim; Honor
motioned him over.

“ My own darling boy, w r hy did you come
back so late? How
thin and white you
are! We must feed
him well, must we
not, Honor?”

She stroked his
face as he bent over
her, and under her
loving trust and entire
unconsciousness
of the true facts of
the case Jim suddenly
broke down, and, like
a penitent child,
buried his face in a
fold of her dressing-
go w n . And she
never knew the truth.
But even Honor, who
knows, has perfect
faith now in Jim.

In Nature's Workshop.

By Grant Allen.

I.—SEXTONS AND SCAVENGERS.

N a certain sense, all animated
nature is but a single vast co¬
operative society. I am no
foolish optimist : I will admit,
indeed, that the members of
the society so composed often
display to one another the most unfriendly
and unfraternal spirit. 1 he hawks, foi
instance, show a distinct want of tiue
brotherly love towards the larks or the tom¬
tits : and the mice and lizards find the owls
and the cats by no means clubbable. The
co-operative society is hardly what one could
call a happy family. Still, in spite of the
fact insisted upon by the poet that “ Nature
is one with rapine—a harm no preacher can
heal,” it is none the less true that a certain
rough balance, an accommodation or adjust¬
ment of part to part, occurs in every depait-
ment of animal and vegetable life. When
we come to think, it could hardly be
otherwise. Things can only exist it they
contain in themselves the conditions neces¬
sary to existence. An unadapted animal
or plant perishes instantly. Spiders could
not live in an island which contained
no flies ; kingfishers necessarily presup¬
pose fish; and silkworms imply the
presence of mulberry leaves. You cannot
have vultures wild in a country where there
are no dead animals lying about loose ; nor
can you keep bees except where there are
honey-bearing flowers. Dutch clover de¬
pends for its very existence upon a few
insects which fertilize it and set its seeds.
The draining of the fens killed out a dozen
species of English plants and animals; the
inclosure of the prairies deprived the
buffaloes of their chance of pasture. In
this sense, all nature hangs together as it
were; each species fills some place in the
great mosaic which cannot be altered without
considerable disturbance of adjacent pieces.
Destroy the rabbits in a given area, and you
have nothing left for the weasels to feed upon.

Sometimes, too, apparently unimportant or
unnoticed creatures perform in the aggregate
some valuable work for the rest of the plant
and animal community, which little suspects
its real indebtedness to them. Darwin
showed long ago that the humble and de-

Vol. xvii.—4.

spised earthworm was really answerable for
the greater part of that rich layer of vegetable
mould or soil which covers the bare rocks;
it deposits the material in which all our plants
root and from which they derive a large
element of their sustenance. Kill out the
earthworms over the whole of our earth, and
you would reduce a vast proportion of it to
the condition of-a desert. For the worms pull
down green leaves into their neat little burrows;
and the refuse of these leaves, continually
renewed from season to season by the in¬
dustrious small workmen, forms by far the
greater share of that dark layer of vegetable
mould which is the chief source ol the
fertility in plains and lowlands. Sandy up¬
land spots, where worms are few, form little
or no soil, and will only support a poor moor¬
land growth of gorse and heather. You
must have plenty of worms if you want to
grow corn or turnips.

But there are other unconsidered creatures
besides these, creatures which perform for
us functions almost as useful and important
as those of the earthworms ; and I propose
to devote a few pages here to one such group,
the sanitary commissioners of the insect
world, as I will venture to call them—the
vast body of minor sextons and six-legged
scavengers.. Has it .ever, struck you that
as you walk abroad through the rich green
meadows and pastures of England, you
almost never come across a dead and decay¬
ing animal? I do not mean large animals
like horses and donkeys : those do some¬
times occur unburied, giving us bold and un¬
pleasant advertisement of their near presence.
But just consider that the fields through
which you stroll are a perfect warren of moles
and shrews and field-mice and water-voles
and frogs and lizards and rabbits and weasels,
to say nothing of smaller fry; and then think
how seldom on your morning rounds in the
country you come across a single dead bird
or rat or adder, a departed toad, or a late
lamented leveret. The ground about you
teems with life : but where are its cemeteries ?
Squirrels and dormice are dying in every
copse : but what becomes of their bodies ?
Who ever saw a dead bat ? Who knows the
tomb of the deceased hedgehogs ?

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

Of course a great many of the smaller
animals die a violent death, and find their
living grave in the maw of their devourers—
one must admit that explanation as covering
a very large number of cases. Thirty field-
mice have been disinterred from the stomach
of a single buzzard when it was shot in the
act of digesting after a good dinner; and
owls and snakes are answerable for the fate
of no small proportion of our minuter wild
animals. In other countries, too, vultures
and jackals devour most of the carrion as it
lies; while even in England we have a few
dead-meat-eaters, such as the carrion-crow,
the rat, and the shrike. But for the most
part our rural English public scavengers are
smaller and less conspicuous creatures.
Foremost among them in number-and utility
we may reckon the various kinds of burying
beetle.

If you do find the body of a mouse or
shrew lying unburied in England, it occurs
almost always on a path or high-road. Now
this fact is in itself significant; for the high¬
road is practically a man-made desert, so
hardened and steam-rollered, so pounded
and wheel-ridden, that no plant can grow on
it; so exposed that small animals will only
scurry across it for dear life in fear and
trembling; and so difficult to dig into that
no burrowing creature can hope to worm
his toilsome way through it. Hence the
animals that die on the road are
almost never buried ; while those
that die in the field or cojxse are
either eaten at once by larger
beasts, or else decently, interred
within a few hours by the sexton
beetles and other established
scavengers. Indeed, a common
superstition exists among country
folk that one of the small long-
nosed, insect-eating animals known
as shrews cannot so much as cross
a road without being killed in¬
stantly. A human track is sup¬
posed to be fatal to them. The
superstition has arisen in this way :
shrews die of cold and hunger in
great numbers at the approach of
winter. A certain proportion of
them perish thus in the open
fields; these, however, are im¬
mediately buried by the proper authorities,
the < sexton beetles. But a few happen to
die as they are crossing a road or path ;
these lie where they fell, because the
sextons cannot there pierce the hard
ground, and seldom even dare venture

on the road to carry them off to softer
spots for burial. The rustic sees dead
shrews in the road, and none on the open
ground : so he hastily concludes in his easy¬
going way that to cross a human path is
sudden death to shrews, who are always
supposed for other reasons to be witch-like
and uncanny animals. If the road leads to
a church, a fatal stroke is specially certain :
for the shrews, like all witch-creatures, hate
Christianity.

I need hardly say, however, that the bury¬
ing beetles do not perform their strange
funereal office out of pure benevolence, with¬
out hope of reward. Like human sextons
and undertakers, they adopt their lugubrious
calling for the sake of gain : they expect to
be paid for their sanitary services. The
payment is taken in two forms : one, im¬
mediate, as food for themselves : the other,
deferred, as board and lodging for their
children.

Our illustration No. i introduces us to a
typical miscellaneous group of these insect
scavengers, occupied in appropriating a very
fine and desirable carcass on which they

I.—GROUPS OF MISCELLANEOUS SEXTON BEETLES, DISCOVERING A DEAD
FIELD-MOUSE.

have just lighted. A field-mouse, vanquished
by fate in the struggle for existence, has
lately “ turned up his toes ” in the most
literal sense, and lies unburied, like Archytas,
on the loose sand of a bare patch in a
meadow. All carrion-eating creatures are

IN NATURE’S WORKSHOP.

remarkable for their powerful sense of smell:
and the sexton beetles, like the vultures and
condors, are no exception to the rule. Ihey
sniff their prey from afar : for where the
carcass is, there shall the carrion beetles be
gathered together. All are eager to take
their share of the feast, and still more to lay
their eggs in the dead body. Some of them
may crawl up from the immediate neighbour¬
hood : others, summoned from afar, come
flying on their gauze-like wings from con¬
siderable distances. They are, as a rule,
nocturnal creatures, and they come out on
their burying expeditions by night alone.

The insect just alighting from his flight, in
the upper part of the illustration, is the
burying beetle pcu* excellence among our
British kinds; he rejoices (we are always
supposed to rejoice foolishly in our personal
designations) in the dignified title of Necro-
phorus vespillo. In stature he measures
about an inch
long, and he is
a handsome
beast,
bright
bands
hard

As a rule, when a carcass appears, a pair
of burying beetles of the same species--a
husband and wife—fly up to the scene of
operations together and take possession ot
the prey ; though in the illustration Mr.
Knock has represented several kinds engaged
at once in staking out claims, which indeed
happens often enough in nature. But if you
count the number on any one dead bird or
animal, you will almost always find they are
even in number—in other words, so many
pairs, male and female. No. 2 shows us the
next act in the funeral drama. The male
beetles, after satisfying their own immediate
hunger, proceed to bury the carcass in a very
curious and laborious manner. You would
wonder how'so small a ^creature could pro¬
duce so great a result : the fact is, the beetles
attain their end by continuous under-cutting.
The female hi'des herself in the body : the
male buries her alive and the dead creature

with her. He

with two
orange
on his
wing-
covers. The
illustration
shows these
wing -covers
raised, as is the
habit of beetles
when they fly,
while the thin
but powerful
wings beneath
them are ex¬
panded as true
pinions. When
the insect
alights, he folds

the wings up carefully and replaces them
under the hard protective wing-covers : he
is then securely armour-plated from head to
foot, and need fear no foe, save birds which
swallow him whole—a very tough morsel —
and hedgehogs which crunch him in their
strong jaws before eating him. However, he
is well prepared for all such enemies, for he
can exude when attacked a very nasty fluid
with a disgusting smell : and this mode of
defence, which resembles that of the skunk
and the polecat, usually protects him from
obtrusive inquirers. He must be handled
with caution, as the .perfume he diffuses
spoils woollen clothes and clings to the
after two or

first drags the
mouse, frog,

2. — THE SEXTONS AT WORK 1 BURYING THE BODY.

fingers

three washings.

bird to a suit¬
able spot where
the soil is soft
enough to
admit of exca¬
vation ; and
sometimes
three or four
males have to
combine for
this purpose.
They then pro¬
ceed to dig with
their » heads,
which are tools
specialized for
the purpose,
and provided
with strong and
powerful muscles. The antennae have also
assumed for this object a short club-shaped
type, very suitable for a navvy’s mattock.
The little engineers begin by excavating a
furrow all round the body, and then a second
inside that again, throwing the earth out ot
each into the previous one ; and so on tilF
the carcass begins to sink into the hollow.
They then dig and tunnel beneath it, carry¬
ing out loads of earth, one after another, till
bit by bit the carcass collapses into the hole,
first in front, then behind, and has reached a
level considerably below the surface. Then
they throw in the earth they have excavated,
and cover up the body with the females
inside it ; after which, I regret to say, they

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

proceed to hold a very cannibalistic funeral
service above it. The funeral service con¬
sists in eating as much of the body as
they desire for their own purposes : when
they have satisfied their appetite, they
begin to think of the interests of posterity.
The mother beetle proceeds to lay her tale of
eggs in the decently-buried body, for every
animal knows by instinct the precise place in
which to deposit its young and the precise
food which happens to suit them.

After the eggs are laid, the two parent
beetles crawl out of the hole and cover it
carefully up so as to conceal the hiding-place.
So far as they themselves are concerned,
their only object in all this is to
procure food for themselves and
their infant young. But the

wider effects of such scavenger
insects go very far. For we

now know that there is no disin¬
fectant so good as the top layer
of the soil, which is not really
mere dead earth (as most people
imagine), but a mingled mass of
ramifying life—a little foundation
of clay and sand intermixed with
endless minute organisms, both
animal and vegetable — fungi,
bacteria, mites, weevils, and all
sorts of petty creatures, which
eat up and destroy harmlessly
all dead matter subjected to
their influence. The earth is
thus a most admirable deodorizer
and purifier : and burial in its
top layers, the body being freely
exposed to the rapid action of
the devouring microbes, is a most
sanitary mode of disposing of refuse. Thus the
part that is played in the East by vultures and
jackals, or by the wild dogs of Constantinople,
is far more effectually and unobtrusively
played in our fields and meadows by the
many kinds of burying beetles and other
insect scavengers. If we remember how
great a nuisance a single dead rat becomes
in a house, we can faintly picture to our¬
selves the debt we owe to these excellent
and unnoticed little sanitary commissioners.
Without them, our fields would not smell so
fresh, nor would our flowers bloom so bright;
for we must remember that by burying the
dead beasts they are not only preventing
disease but also manuring the pastures in
the best possible fashion. The bones of
small animals decay rapidly and make
excellent material for the growth of vegeta¬
tion. The beetles as a rule hunt by night

only, and find their prey, as vultures do, by
the sense of smell. When they first find it,
the male hovers above it like an eagle,
circling round and round, so as to point it
out to his mate; the female flies straight to
it, and buries herself without delay in the
rich banquet.

But what becomes at last of the buried
bodies ? No. 3 will show you. The female
beetle lays in each body about as many eggs
as she thinks it will support. In a very
short time the eggs hatch out, and the
grubs begin to devour the abundant feast
provided for them. The two grubs to the
right in the illustration are the young of

our friend the orange-banded burying beetle :
the one to the left is a larva of an allied
form known by the poetical name of Silpha.
They set to work at once on the remains
of the mouse, and thoroughly strip the
bones of every fibre of flesh. As soon as
the skeleton is bare, they consider it time to
leave off feeding, and pass on to the second
stage of their existence — the pupa, or
mummy-case.

As larvae, the young burying beetles look
like worms, and have six short legs. No. 4
shows them in the intermediate stage, when
they have retired into a clay cell, or cocoon,
and are undergoing their transformation into
the perfect insect. We are here supposed
to have removed the soil on one side so
as to give a view into the concreted earthen
chambers where the pupae are changing into
full-grown beetles. You can see the much

3 .—THE GRUBS UNDERGROUND l FEEDING UPON THE BODY.

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

longer legs of the adult insect beginning to
develop, while the head assumes slowly its
later form. The grubs remain in the cocoon
through the winter, and emerge in spring as
winged beetles,when they fly away with their
brilliant wing-cases raised, in search of con¬
genial mates and more dead field-mice. The
best places to look for all these beetles are
the “ keeper’s trees,” on which game-keepers
hang up the jays and weasels they shoot,
to encourage the others. If you tap one
such dead weasel you will generally find it is
simply swarming with insect life.

Yet, strange to say, even the insect under¬
takers themselves are not without their ideas
of beauty and their musical perceptions. The

orange bands of our commonest English kind
have been developed as attractions for their
admiring mates ; and the male beetles have
also a musical instrument of their own in
the shape of a peculiar rasp-like ring on
the body, which they can rub against
the wing-cases, and so produce a much-
appreciated chirping. Such instrumental
music is always employed, like the song of
birds, as a charm to heighten the attractive¬
ness of the suitor : and male burying beetles
may be heard on the evenings of sunny days
competing with one another in musical
contests. Indeed, it often happens that
animals which seem to us disgusting or
unclean display among themselves much
aesthetic taste, and are gifted with more sense
of beauty or love of music than many other

forms where our human eyes would be more
inclined to look for the presence of these
higher endowments.

I may add that if the beetles left the bodies
in which they laid their eggs to lie above
ground, the bodies would dry up, and the
eggs would run much greater risks. By
burying the dead animal, they provide their
young with food and shelter together, and so
display considerable intelligence.

Another very distinct group of insects
which act as scavengers in a different way in
hotter climates than ours are the famous
scarabs or sacred beetles, worshipped almost
like gods by the ancient Egyptians. English
people know the scarabs best, I think, in the
neighbourhood of Naples, or on
the Lido at Venice — that great
bank of sand and shingle which
separates the lagoons from the
open Adriatic. When wearied with
sight-seeing at St. Mark’s and the
Doge’s Palace, we have, most of
us, taken the little steamer that
runs across to the baths on the
Lido, and spent a pleasant hour
or two in picking up shells and
dried sea-horses on the firm belt of
beach that stretches away to Mala-
mocco. A little inland, the beach
gives way to dry sand-hills, blown
about by the wind, and over-grown
by patches of blue-green maram-
grass and other sandy seaside
weeds. If you lie down on one of
these sand-hills, choosing a spot
not quite so dirty as its neigh¬
bours, you will soon be amused by
seeing a curious little comedy going
on perpetually around you in every
direction. A number of odd¬
looking beetles, with long hind legs and very
quaint heads, are occupied with ceaseless
industry in rolling a lot of dark, round balls
almost as big as themselves along the slopes
of the sand-hills. In many places, the whole
ground is alive with the tugging arid pushing
little beasts: indeed, when you come to look
close you will find that every half acre of
sand on the Venetian shore or the lower
edge of the Egyptian desert is a perfect city
of these busy wee creatures. Earth is honey¬
combed with their holes, towards which
innumerable beetles are continually rolling
their mysterious balls at every possible angle.

Now, what are the balls composed of?
There comes the oddest part of the whole
odd proceeding. The plain truth of it is that
the sacred beetles are assistant scavengers

4.—NO MORE LEFT ! THE GRUBS IN THEIR COCOONS TURNING INTO
BEETLES.

3 °

THE STEAND MAGAZINE .

—imperfect Southern and Oriental substi¬
tutes for a main drainage system. The balls
consist of dung, dirt, and refuse, and the
beetles collect them on the open, dry them
hard in the sun, roll them to the mouths of
their burrows, and then live on them till the
ball has all been eaten. It is the funniest
thing in the world to watch them. They
tumble about in the loose sand and stumble
over little eminences in the most comical
fashion. No. 5 shows a pair of scarabs
engaged in this habitual and quaint amuse¬
ment. They have each collected a round
mass of manure, and rolled and dried it nicely
into shape; they are now engaged in trund¬
ling their booty off at their leisure to
a place of safety. But • they are obliged-
to push the balls backward with
their long hind legs : and as this
precludes the possibility of the
scarab seeing where it is going,

times

- - -.. —^

5. SACKED SCARABS ROLLING THEIR FOOD-BALLS BACKWARD (THE INSECT TO THE
RIGHT HAS LOST HIS DINNER).

But as the pellets roll quickly, and the beetles
are by no means rapid runners, he seldom
succeeds in recovering his own property,
unless the ball happens to catch fora moment
on some projecting little hillock of sand, or
be checked on its downward course by a
weed, a stick, or a dead shell or starfish.

On the other hand, the scarabs, I fear I
must admit, are terrible thieves; and if one
scarab has lost his own ball, and sees some
companion’s pellet come rolling down hill
towards him, he will often give up the pur¬
suit of his lost property, and quietly and
barefacedly appropriate his neighbour’s. I
have seen great fights take place at
times over a disputed ball; though some-
the combatants agree amicably to
roll it along in common,
and probably share it
when they have reached
their hole. Sometimes,
again, three or four will
unite to roll a ball :
and then, when one
loses it, the others com¬
bine to hold it up or
catch it. I have spent
hours together both in
Egypt and on the Medi¬
terranean or the Adriatic
in watching the queer
antics of these comic
little commissioners of
drainage : and I never
tire of observing their
odd and unexpected
combinations of interest.

I have sometimes known
the real owner abandon
a ball in despair, from
the unevenness of the

each beetle pauses every now and again and
turns round, like a man sculling in a boat
alone, to look what is ahead of him. Some¬
times in doing so he loses his ball, a misfortune
which has just happened to the beetle on the
right in No. 5. The precious pellet goes
bounding off down hill as fast as gravitation
will take it. In this case, the disappointed
little workman faces round and darts after it
at full speed, going forward now instead of
backward, and trying to head the ball as it
rolls down the uncertain slope of the sand¬
hills. If he succeeds, he puts himself in
front of the ball as it falls, catches it
with his hind legs, and begins once more
laboriously to push it backward up hill
again, towards the mouth of his hole.

ground, and then seen
a couple of outsiders come up and succeed
in doing what the true owner had been
unable to accomplish.

In No. 6 you see two such scarabs whose
toil has at last been crowned by success, and
who are delivering their balls with joy into
the holes in the sand which form their resi¬
dences. As far as I can make out, a pair of
beetles, male and female, seem usually to
share a hole in common, and to roll balls of
food to it either alone or in concert. I can¬
not say I have ever seen much co-operation
except between such partners. Once a ball
is secured and safely landed—for here, as
elsewhere, there’s many a slip ’twixt the cup
and the lip—the happy couple proceed to
eat it up, and apparently do not emerge

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

3 i

again from their burrow till the supply is
exhausted. Patient naturalists say that one
ball has been known to last a scarab as long
as a fortnight, but this I do not vouch for of
personal knowledge. When more food is

6.—PRIMITIVE GOLF—END OF A ROUND I THE SCARABS HOLING THEIR BALLS.

wanted, the couple emerge once more on the
open sand and begin to collect fresh dung
and refuse, which they roll into a new food-
ball and then dry and harden. 1

Till very lately, it was universally believed
that the female scarab laid an egg in some of
the balls, and that the young grubs hatched
within such food-stocks and began at once to
devour them. This belief has recently been
contradicted with great emphasis : by a good
French observer, who opened many balls and
found no eggs ; but I cannot accept his con¬
clusion. I opened numbers of balls myself
near Venice this year, and saw in several one
or two eggs, while in one case (unearthed
from a hole) I discovered a half-grown larva.
I venture therefore in this matter to believe
my own eyes as against those of even the most
celebrated and authoritative entomologists.

In Egypt, it has been universally believed
from all antiquity—and I think quite rightly
—that after the scarab has laid an egg
in the ball, the parents unite in rolling it
to a place of safety, above the level of the
annual inundation due to the rise of the
Nile. At any rate, scarabs abound in
Egypt. At a very early date, it would
seem, the curious action of these beetles
attracted the attention of the ancient
Egyptians, whose worship of animals was

one of the most marked features in their
monstrous religion. Hence grew a strange
and widespread superstition. A race which
deified the hawk, the cat,
the ibis, and the jackal
was not likely to overlook
the marvellous proceed¬
ings of the pious and
dutiful scarab. So the
very early Egyptians, we
may conjecture, began
by thinking there must
be something divine in
the nature of an insect
which worked so cease¬
lessly on behalf of its
young, and rolled such
big round balls behind it
up such relatively large
hillocks. Watching a
little closer, as time went
on, the Egyptian dis¬
covered, no doubt, that
sacred beetles did not
proceed directly from
sacred beetles, like
lambs from ewes, but
grew, as it were, out of
- the dirt and corruption
of the mysterious pellets. A modern observer
would, of course, at once suspect that the
scarab laid an egg inside the ball, and would
promptly proceed to pull one open and look
for it. But that cold scientific method was
not likely to commend itself to the mystic
and deeply religious Egyptian mind. -The
priests by the Nile jumped rather to the
conclusion that the scarab collected dirt in
order to make a future scarab out of clay,
and that from this dirt the young beetle
grew, self-existent, self-developed, self-created.
Considering the absence of scientific know¬
ledge and comparative groups of scientific
facts at the time, such a conclusion was by
no means unnatural.

Once started on so strange a set of ideas,
the Egyptians proceeded to evolve a worship
of the scarab which grew ever and developed,
as they thought the scarab itself did, practi¬
cally out of nothing. The immortality of the
soul and the resurrection of the body were
the central ideas of Egyptian religion ; the
thinkers of Thebes and Memphis instantly
perceived a fanciful analogy between the
scarab rising from its bed of dirt and the
mummy reviving when the expected day of
resurrection should at last arrive. As a con¬
sequence of this analogy, the scarab was made
sacred : it was reverenced during its life and

the strand magazine.

often preserved after its death, like the
mummied cats and hawks and sacred Apis
bulls which formed such special objects of
veneration to -the devout of Egypt. All sorts
of mystic relations were also discovered
before long in the scarab : its “ toes ” were
counted as thirty, and held to symbolize
the days of the month: it was said to be
male only, without a female, and so to typify
the creative power and the paternal or
masculine principle in nature. Sun-worship,
as we know, formed a large part of the later
(though not of the most primitive) Egyptian
religion : and the ball rolled by the scarab
was therefore supposed to personify Ra, the
great sun-god. In one way or another, the
sanctify and the mystic- implications of the
scarab grew and grew, age after age, until at
last scarab-worship became one of the chief
practical elements in the religion of Egypt.
There was a scarab-headed
god, and scarab hieroglyphs
appear on the face of all
the monuments.

It is as a charm or
amulet, however, that the
ancient Egyptian imitation
scarab is best known.

From a very early period
in the history of the Nile
valley it became usual for
luck’s sake to bury some
of these sacred beetles with
the mummy, perhaps alive
(in which case most of
them would no doubt creep
out again) and perhaps also
dead. A few real scarabs
have thus been found here
and there in tombs. But
for the most part, just as
the Egyptians buried little porcelain images
to accompany the mummy, so they buried
porcelain or stone scarabs ; and these were
rather closely imitated from the living
insect, but made still more sacred by being
enamelled or engraved with the holy name
of some king or god. Scarabs of this kind,
inscribed with sacred words, and regarded as
talismans, form some of the commonest
objects disinterred in all the Egyptian
excavations : one of them, from a specimen
in the British Museum, is illustrated in
No. 7. Comparison with the live beetles in
the other engravings will show how well the
Egyptians copied nature in this instance.

These beautiful and often costly Egyptian
scarabs have been made the subject of very
exhaustive study by various writers, more

7.—AN EGYPTIAN SACRED SCARAB, IN
THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

stones.

particularly by Mr. Loftie and Mr. Flinders
Petrie. The Egyptians did not coin money,
so that scarabs bearing the names of kings
came to have somewhat the same importance
for Egyptian history as coins have for the
history of later civilized nations. Mr. Loftie
traces the origin of the inscribed scarabs to a
very early epoch in the Egyptian annals.
“From the earliest times until the end of
the native monarchy,” he says, “certain
usages continued unchanged. Among them
was the inscription of names and texts on
scarabs. The beetle which rolls before it ”
—he ought rather to have said behind it—
“ a ball of mud in which its egg is concealed
was, at some period so remote that we
cannot even approximately date it, seized
upon as the embodiment of the idea of
futurity. . . . The scarab, burying his egg,
became the symbol of the resurrection, of the
happy time to come, of a
re-creation of all things :
and with every corpse
scarabs were buried, and
scarabs were sewed upon
the shroud, and strung
into a network to cover
the body, and suspended
round the neck, and clasped
in the dead hands. As many
as three thousand scarabs
have been found in one
tomb, and the number in
existence in museums and
private collections is past
count.” Some of these
imitation beetles are of
blue pottery, enamelled
outside ; but others are of
lapis-lazuli, jade, caraelian,
and many other precious
Sacred in themselves by their very
form, that of the revered insect god, they are
rendered still more sacred by their mystic
inscriptions, which consist of appropriate
religious phrases in hieroglyphic writing.

From Egypt, the belief in the luck and
value of engraved scarabs as charms or
amulets passed on to the Greeks, and also
to the Etruscans. Many Greek scarabs
have been found; and in the old Etruscan
tombs such lucky beasts are comparatively
common. They are mostly made more or
less in imitation of the Egyptian originals.
Oddly enough, even the early Christians
themselves did not at once get over the
belief in the sanctity and talismanic character
of the sacred beetle, for the Rev. W. J.
Loftie has pointed out examples of late

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

scarabs engraved with undoubted Christian
symbols—not only crosses but even crucifixes.
In our own days, a slight revival of the
antique superstition has once more taken
place, and some ladies of my acquaintance
wear specimens of the old sacred beetles as
charms in brooches or suspended on their
watch-chains.

Though such numbers of true ancient
scarabs have been unearthed in Egypt, still
the supply of the genuine article does not
quite keep pace with the increasing de¬
mands of the modern tourist: and there is
now a flourishing manufactory of sham
antiques at Luxor, where hundreds of false
scarabs with nice imitation hieroglyphic
inscriptions are neatly turned out for the
market every season.

About sixty different kinds of live scarabs
are known to inhabit the Mediterranean dis-
s trict in Europe, Asia, or Africa : and four
of these kinds can be easily distinguished
as being individually represented in the old
Egyptian gems. We have no true scarab
of this class living in Britain : but there are
other scavenger beetles which take their
place, the best known being the common
dor-beetle. One of the same family, but
with a quaintly horned head, exists in vast
numbers on the Surrey hills where I have
pitched my tent. This English dung-beetle
burrows in the soft sandstone, and throws
up neat little heaps of clean sand at the
mouth of its hole, like miniature mole¬
hills. Still, our English scavenger beetles —
known to science as Geotrupes — are not
nearly so clever or so interesting as the
southern type, for the female in our sort
merely grubs a straight tunnel in the ground,
and lays her egg in a loose mass of dung,
which she drags to the bottom in a shapeless
condition. This beetle utters a plaintive
buzzing cry when it is chasing its mate — a
sort of “ last appeal ” which seems calculated
to soften the heart of the hardest lady beetle.
It is as cunning in its way as most others
of its race, for if you catch it in your
hand, it at once draws in its legs to its
side and “shams dead.” All the English
and foreign scavenger beetles perform
a useful task by following up animals
and clearing away their refuse; indeed,
a special kind of beetle lays itself out as
scavenger for each species of large animal,
one kind being attached to the cow, one
to the donkey, one to the camel, and

so on through a long list of patrons and
satellites.

You will thus see that in this wider sense
all creation moves together like a vast joint-
stock co-operative society, each kind working
consciously for its own good alone, but each
also in a certain deeper and unconscious way
contributing to the general well-being of all,
by its exercise of some special function.
Nevertheless, the function is always performed
by each plant or animal itself for its own
purposes; it only incidentally serves to
benefit the others. Thus the burying beetles
and the scavenger beetles work first of all
and ostensibly for their own food and
the food of their offspring: it is merely
as an incidental result, undesigned by them¬
selves, that they assist in purifying the air
and the soil for all other species. Or, to
put it still more simply, while these indus¬
trious little creatures are working individually
for their own ends, they are also in the wider,
scheme of nature working unconsciously and
almost unwillingly in the service of others.
Nature bribes each kind, as it were, by some
personal advantage to perform good work for
the benefit of the totality.

The good work performed by the scavengers
may be thus summed up. If dead bodies
and the refuse of food were left about every¬
where freely on the open, germs of disease
and putrefaction would fly about much
more commonly than even at present. But
a large number of scavenger animals,
scavenger birds, and scavenger insects —
hyenas, vultures, burying beetles, and so
forth—act as public servants to prevent this
calamity. Again, the earth needs the bodies
and the refuse as fertilizers : and many of
the scavengers carry down such materials
into the first layer of the soil, where they
become of enormous use in promoting the
freer growth of vegetation. Thus, long
before men learnt to bury their dead or to
manure their fields, nature had invented
both these processes, and registered them,
so to speak, in the instincts and habits of a
special class of insect sextons and sanitary
inspectors. It is always so in life. There
is hardly a human trade or a human activity
which does not find its counterpart some¬
where in animal or vegetable life: and it
will be my object, in future numbers of these
papers, to set before you in other directions
some such natural anticipations or fore-
shadowings of man’s inventions,

Vol. xvii.—5

RIVATE WILLIAM FOX
was swaggering down the road
to Shorncliffe Camp; that is
to say, he was trying to swagger
as much as his 5ft. 2in. of
stature would allow. For the
prettiest girl in Folkestone was holding on
affectionately to his left arm, and in his right
hand he displayed to full advantage his new
silver-topped cane, the result of several
weeks’ savings.

“ Little Willie,” as his comrades of the
210th line called him, was the most
“special” of “special enlistments.” He
had enlisted at a time when a war scare
was running riot throughout the country,
and the inspector-surgeon had passed
him, saying that he was sure to grow to
standard height as he was only just eighteen,
although it was evident to anyone who
glanced at the set look of his shoulders that
he would never be a hair’s-breadth taller
than he was. It was certainly rather trying
to his three-month-old martial dignity to
have the street urchins asking him as he
strutted through the town whether “ his ma
knew he was out ”—but that was nothing to
the jeers of the men of his company, and
Little Willie had not found the life of a soldier
of the Queen as alluring as the recruiting
sergeant had painted it.

But on this particular summer afternoon
he had forgotten all that, for was not Nellie,
his own little Nellie, tripping along by his
side ?— -and he never thought of his grievances
when she smiled those sunny smiles of hers.
He had known her for years ; as children
they had made mud-pies in the gutter
together, and when he was a little older he
used to spend the pence he got for holding
horses and running errands in sweets for
Nellie; and now that they were grown up,
and that she was in service and he was
wearing a red coat, they “walked out”
together, and talked of getting married.

“When I get my stripes, Nell, we’ll get
spliced, thet’s what we’ll do.”

Nell nodded her assent.

“ ’Ow long ’ll thet be, Will ? ”

“Not so very long, neither,” he said, his
boyish face lighting up with the ambition of
a future field-marshal — “ a year or two, may¬
be, maybe less—they’re a-wanting good,
steady men loike me.”

Here a loud voice behind them put an end
to further confidences. “ Ullo, little ’un,
where are yer a-going, so ’aughty-like ? Yer
won’t as much as look at a pal ! ”

The two stopped and looked round as Big
Bob finished his sentence, Willie with disgust
written on every feature, Nellie with un¬
qualified admiration in her brown eyes. Big
Bob was accustomed to that sort of thing

WEE PIN' WILLIE,

from the girls he condescended to talk to ;
he was certainly a very handsome man—fair,
curly hair, a fierce moustache, and light-blue
eyes that looked down protectingly on
womankind in general. So without further
ado he ranged up on the other side of Nellie
with a “ Pleased to meet yer, miss.”

For the rest of that walk poor Little Willie
was decidedly “ out of it.” He had to dodge
lamp-posts and walk on the curb, so that his
six-foot rival should not be forced into the
hedge on the other side ; however, there was
one consolatory thought in his mind, namely,
that if Nellie managed to impress Big Bob
favourably—as he had little doubt she would
—the latter perhaps would give up making
Willie’s barrack-room life a burden to him.

Nellie did make a good impression on Big
Bob; but, alas, for poor little Willie, it was not
a one-sided affair. Next time the two lovers
went forastroll, Nell was distinctly patronizing.

“Why don’t yer grow, Will ? Yer ain’t as
tall as me by a inch, and yer does look small
in a red coat ! ”

This was an awful blow; up till now,
Nellie had been the only one person who
told him he looked well in his uniform, and
now that she should turn on him like this !

“ Garn ! ” he answered, “ where’s the use
in bein’ a lamp-post ? ”

“But Big Bob—I mean Mr. Jones—’e ain’t
no lamp-post. ’E’s a good sight broader in
the shoulders than ever you’ll be. Why, ’e’d
make two of yer, ’e would ! ”

“Well, ’e don’t draw no double pay, no
’ow, and don’t yer forget it, neither ! ”

After half an hour’s walk these amenities
produced a decided coolness, and when Big
Bob strolled up and offered them the pleasure
of his company, it was a great relief to both.
But Little Willie felt very miserable indeed
when he thought over the day’s events, as he
lay on his hard barrack bed that night and
courted sleep in vain.

“ I’ll make it up with her on Sunday,” he
kept on saying to himself by way of consola¬
tion. But when Sunday came round again,
after a long, weary week of bullying, Nellie
was absent from the rendezvous, and he
wandered disconsolately all over Folkestone
in the hope of meeting her. He did meet
her—but hanging proudly on the stalwart
arm of Bob Jones ! Poor Willie did not
even reply to her “ Good afternoon,” but
went straight back to his cheerless barrack-
room and spent the remainder of the day in
putting a vicious polish on his captain’s sword
and buttons, by way of relieving his feelings.
Captain Archie Trevor was Little Willie’s

hero—he worshipped him at a distance, and
proved his devotion by the care he took of
that officer’s effects. Captain Trevor’s boots
were the admiration of the parade, and even
the colonel wondered how they always looked
so bright and spotless. Willie was an ideal
soldier’s servant, and was quite happy if he
won an occasional word of approbation from
his hero; for Willie had never forgotten
how, during his first march-out with the
battalion, when he was staggering along
under his heavy rifle, with blistered feet and
aching legs, wondering how long it would be
before his knees gave way altogether, his
stalwart captain had come up and cheered
him with a few words, and had carried his
rifle for him all the rest of the long, weary
day. “ I’d give a month’s pay, thet I would,
to shake ’ands with the captain,” he had
afterwards said to a comrade, in a burst of
confidence; and so it came about that there
was never such an ideal soldier’s servant as
Little Willie.

That evening A Company had a “ smoker ”
in one of the disused huts of Shorncliffe
Camp. The hut was packed with unbelted
warriors, who joined noisily in the choruses
of the popular songs, and passed round
buckets of beer to wet their throats between
whiles. Little groups of men wer£ sitting
smoking all over the room, some on biscuit-
tins, some on benches and tables, all chatting
and laughing amongst themselves, and occa¬
sionally shouting spicy and personal remarks
to the performers, who used a table as a
stage, and were not loth to pause in the
middle of a song and accept a drink from a
proffered mug or pail.

One occupant of the room, however, took
little interest in the proceedings. Willie had
perched himself in a corner, where he sat
unnoticed; why he had come at all he did
not know. Perhaps it was that anything was
preferable to the deserted barrack-room in
his present state of mind. There he sat on
an upturned pail, with an untouched mug of
beer beside him, giving no heed to what
went on around, dismally busy with his own
thoughts.

“ What-ho, Willie,” cried Big Bob, as he
espied him for the first time. “ What yer so
quiet about ? ”

Willie gave an imperceptible shudder as
the bully shouldered his way through the
intervening groups. “ ’Ere, boys, Little
Willie’s goin’ to give us a cormic song ! ”

A roar of applause greeted this announce¬
ment, and several of Willie’s particular
tormentors closed up around him.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ I carn’t sing to-night,” protested the
victim, feebly.

“ More yer can any other time ! ”

Another round of applause followed this
sally.

“ Ain’t yer going to offer us a tip at yer
mug?” Big Bob said, as he caught up the
tankard from the floor.

“ In course, if yer ain’t wet enough
already,” answered Willie.

“ Mates,” said the offended one, pointing
dramatically at the youth on the bucket—
“ Mates, the nipper’s ’inted as ’ow I’m
squiffy! Then take yer bloomin’ tipple;
Oi’ll ’ave none of it! ” and he poured the
whole contents of the pot over the luckless
young soldier.

Willie rose with an angry flush, but some¬
one from behind caught him by the ankle
and sent him rolling to the floor.

the first time that Willie had “ gone through
the mill,” but he was getting rather sick of
the process, and resolved to show fight.

“ Yer bloomin’ set of bullies ! ” he blurted
out. But just then a leg from the encircling
crowd neatly tripped up our young gallant
and deposited him on the floor again. Once
more he struggled to his feet, but as he
looked round the circle of grinning faces,
all many inches above him, and as he
thought of his own dear little Nellie “walk¬
ing out ” with the fellow who was making
his life unbearable, he felt a lump rise in his
throat; his fists unclenched, and in another
second he had sunk down on the upturned
bucket, sobbing as if his heart would break,
and his hot tears mingled with the beer that
was trickling from his hair.

“ Law lumme, he’s acshally weepin ’ / ”

A roar of derision and disgust rose from

WEEPIN’ WILLIE, TAKE THET.”

“So-o-o, yer wants to fight, does yer?”
cried Big Bob, as he jerked the lad to his
feet again. “What proice thet, Sandow!”
and he administered a terrific box on the ear
to the half-dazed Willie. It was by no means

the astonished soldiers. Then every man
solemnly fetched his drink, and poured it
over the prostrate lad. “ £ Weepin’ Willie,’
take thet,” was the formula, as each man
upset the contents of his can.

WEE PIN 1 WILLIE .

At that moment the door opened, and
those who stood nearest it drew themselves
up to “attention” as Captain Trevor, who
had heard the noise as he was passing by,
strode into the room.

“ What’s this ? ” he said, addressing the
crestfallen gang of tormentors. “ Off you
all go to your barrack-rooms at once, and
don’t let this ever happen again in A Com¬
pany.”

They were only too glad to get off so
easily, and in less than a minute Captain
Trevor and Private Fox were alone.

“What does this mean, Fox? Why,
surely, man, you’ve not been crying! ”

“ Please, sir, I couldn’t ’elp it, I did feel
so wretched like.”

“ You’ve left school now, remember that—
we don’t have men who cry in the army.
Get back to your room at once, and
don’t let me ever see you in this state
again. I am disappointed in you, Fox.”

Poor Willie, sick at heart and sore
in limb, crept back to his barrack-
room, where he was greeted with
jeers and hoots, but, mindful of
Captain Trevor’s warning, his com¬
rades abstained from stronger
measures that night.

The months that followed made
his life a perfect pandemonium. All
his room-mates taxed their ingenuity
to the utmost in order to devise new
tortures and humiliations for
“ Weepin’ Willie.”

His bed was always soaking wet,
his kit and accoutrements hidden
away. They painted his buttons,
they whitewashed his boots, they
borrowed his blankets. When a
man could not sleep, he whiled
away the hours of the night by
throwing the heaviest missiles he
could lay his hands on at the luck¬
less youth. On wet afternoons
Willie was “ crucified ” for the public
amusement, a process which con¬
sisted in tying up the patient’s wrists
just above the door, so that when¬
ever it was opened he got a severe
jerking. And yet through it all he
never showed fight and never com¬
plained, but bore blows and jibes
alike with stolid indifference.
Although Captain Trevor never
alluded to that awful night, Willie
instinctively felt that his hero
despised him, and that hurt him
more than all the ill-usage of

his room-mates. Nellie he had not seen
since, but she had scribbled him a line in
pencil.

“Mr. ‘Weepin’ Willie,’—Y ou’re a dis¬
grace to the army. I hope never to see you
again till you’ve got given up crying.—N ellie
Lindon.”

This masterpiece of sarcasm Willie kept in
the lining of his tunic, and it made him mad
every time he thought of it. And so the
weary weeks passed by until the trooping
season came, and then, much to the delight
of all the men, A Company was ordered out
to the North-West frontier to join the first
battalion as a draft to make good the ravages
caused by sickness and the enemy. As the
train steamed out of the station, Willie saw
Nelly Lindon waving her handkerchief to
Big Bob, and as his carriage moved slowly
past, she applied a corner to her eyes as if
wiping away an imaginary tear, but there
was a mischievous smile on her lips.

“she aitued a corner to her eyes.'

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE.

II.

“Them’s the beggars we’ve got to smash;
look at ’em a-wasting of their ammunition,
as if hevery round on it wasn’t stolen from
the Govermint.”

“ That’ll make some of the boys perspirite,
I’m thinking,” Sergeant Thomson replied, as
his eyes followed the direction of Big Bob’s
finger.

Half a mile or so from where the company
was halted to refresh itself after its tedious
semi-circular march in the early dawn, a long
sloping hill, covered with stunted growth and
unsteady boulders, rose gradually up to the
sky-line; some little way below the summit,
a ledge of rock ran parallel with the top, and
it was at this ledge that Captain Trevor
directed his field-glasses.

“I’ll send the men up to that ledge in
skirmishing order,” he said to one of his
lieutenants. “They’ll be protected from the
enemy’s fire once they get there, then we
can re-form and do the rest with a rush ; I
don’t suppose it’s more than a hundred and
fifty yards to the summit from there. What
do you think, Mason ? ”

“ I shouldn’t think so; anyway I hope
not, as we’ve got to do it, and the general
will be coming along on the far side in
another couple of hours. By Jove, Trevor,
we’d better hurry up,” he added, as he looked
at his watch. “ We must clear those fellows
off the summit by six o’clock, and it’s nearly
half-past four now. How many of them are
there, do you think ? ”

“Only a couple of hundred, I suppose,
but if we don’t clear them out of that they
could play the very devil with the brigade ;
it’s a sheer drop of 200ft. into the road from
where they are, and they’d be rolling those
great boulders on to the fellows’ heads.
Company, fall in. ’Tention ! You will ad¬
vance in skirmishing order up to that ledge
of rock. Section commanders to keep their
men well in hand and to make the best use
of every bit of cover. Now, remember, no
target-shooting at those niggers on the sky¬
line ! What I want you to do is to get to
that ledge as quickly and with as little loss
as possible. The men will widen out as far
as they can, so as to offer no mark for
the enemy’s sharp-shooters. Section com¬
manders, tell off your men ! ”

Five minutes later the company was
straggling along over the broken ground in
one long line, with wide gaps between the
men, who were left more or less each to take
care of himself and choose his own way.

“ Blow me if we ain’t a-going to ’ave a

treat now ! ” Big Bob shouted to Little Willie,
who was staggering along under the weight of
his rifle half-a-dozen yards to Bob’s left, as a
bullet went whistling in between them. As
the big man spoke his foot caught in a trail¬
ing creeper, and he measured his length on
the ground, his rifle going off as he fell.

Immediately a young recruit on the right,
hearing the report, and longing to have a
shot at the enemy, brought his rifle up to the
“ready,’ took careful aim, and fired. Noth¬
ing is so contagious as contagion. In five
minutes the whole line were taking pot-shots
at the black figures on the sky-line. In vain
did the captain and his two lieutenants curse
and threaten the men nearest them ; in vain
did the non-commissioned officers urge their
men forward—it was impossible to do any¬
thing. The men were all over the place,
some of them a hundred or more yards
apart, some lying down behind boulders
taking aim, others running forward a few
paces, and then discharging their rifles from
the cover afforded by bushes or rocks. As
they gradually worked their way upwards,
the tribesmen’s good shooting began to take
effect. First one man dropped, then another ;
then one of the lieutenants threw up his
hands and fell forward, shot through the
heart in the act of kicking a man who was
having a little private nigger - shooting
competition with his corporal. As the men
saw their comrades fall they got more and
more chary of exposing their own persons,
preferring to lie low and waste ammunition
on the sky-line.

Pitter-patter went the bullets on the stone-
strewn hill-side, and the soldiers crawled a
little closer up to their sheltering rocks and
bent their heads down a few inches lower.
There was not a man there whom you could
have called a coward with impunity. Had
they been all together—in line or column—
they would have gone up the hill like a herd
of buffaloes, with wild cheers and gleaming
bayonets, and never given a thought to the
dead and wounded. But, scattered as they
were over the whole hill-side, with only now
and then a comrade’s white sun-helmet
coming in sight, it was too much to expect
of any man with a loaded magazine and
clear view of the enemy that he should go
on up, alone for all he knew, with the bullets
singing around him.

In vain had Captain Trevor called the men
nearest him a pack of white-livered curs; in
vain had he referred to their parents and
antecedents in terms that would have shocked
and astonished his eminently respectable

WEE PIN’ WILLIE.

aunt, the Dowager-Countess of Trevordine.
At last he gave it up in despair. “ Lie there,
you infernal idiots, and blaze your ammuni¬
tion away. Til be cursed if I stand and
score for you ! ” And, fuming with impotent
rage, he returned his sword to its scabbard
with a vicious click, placed his hands in his
pockets, and continued the ascent alone.

“Just as if ’e was goin’ on a Halp-
climbin’ hexpedition,” as one of the men
remarked.

“ ’E’ll git a bloomin’ ’ole knocked in his
carcuse afore ’e’s gone fur,” Big Bob yelled
to the man nearest him, as he refilled his

me your hand ! You’re the only man fit to
be a soldier in the whole company.”

Willie blushed up to his ears with delight.
At last he had retrieved himself in his hero’s
estimation. Almost reverently, he took the
captain’s outstretched palm.

“ Thank ye, sir,” he said. “ Oi’ve been
wishin’ for this ever since ye carried my rifle
that day ! ”

“ That’s all right, my man. Let’s have a
look at your rifle.” He looked down the
polished barrel. “You don’t mean to tell
me you haven’t fired a shot yet ? ”

“ Beggin’ your pardon, sir, thin I did mis-

magazine and settled his elbows preparatory
to wasting more cartridges.

How Captain Trevor ever reached the
sheltering ridge which was to have been
the rendezvous remains a mystery ; but
reach it he did without a scratch. One
man alone was there to welcome him:
“ Weepin’ Willie ” furtively drew his sleeve
across his mouth to try and disguise the
fact that he was munching a commissariat
biscuit, and stood at attention as his officer
came up. It was Willie’s first experience of
active service, and he did not know if it was
etiquette to be seen breakfasting while under
fire.

“That you, Fox? D-it, man, give

understand yer. I thought as ’ow I adn’t
’eard aright when I saw all the other blokes
—I mean fellers, sir—a-blazin’ away. But
as I ain’t much of a shot I thought I’d be on
the safe soide, and I certingly did think as
’ow you’d told us not to shoot.”

“ I’ll get you to repeat that in front of the
whole company, Fox, if I can ever get them
out of this cursed mess; it would be a lesson
to them.”

Five minutes passed, and still not another
man had reached the rendezvous. Away
down beneath them, some two, some three,
and some four hundred yards away, the little
white helmets could be seen from time to
time as the skirmishers altered their positions.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

shouted to his comrades below : “ Run,
yer blazing beggars, run ! They’re on
yer ! ” And then, with all the speed
his feeble legs would allow, he clam¬
bered off the ridge and began to
stagger down the hill, the captain’s long
legs trailing on the ground behind,
scraping against the loose stones and
starting them rolling. On the little man
stumbled, his knees giving under his
heavy burden, his breath coming in
short sobs, and his heart beating like
a steam-hammer. What if he failed
to save his hero !

Suddenly he became aware of a big
man in “khaki” towering above him.
“ Here, lad, give ’im to me! ” and
a pair of strong arms lifted the captain
easily, as Willie recognised Big
Bob’s voice. A cheer went up
from below as Lieutenant Mason
and a dozen men with gleaming
bayonets came dashing up the
slope. The tribesmen, who were
just coming over the ridge above,
saw the little band, saw the fierce,
determined look on their faces,
the blood - for - blood battle - lust
in their eyes. “ Illah Allah,”
shouted the chief, “ these are no
coward - women after all ! ” and
discharging his rifle haphazard,
scrambled down the ledge the
way he had come. In less time
than it takes to tell, the dusky
warriors were laboriously following their
chief to . the summit again, closely pur¬
sued by the Englishmen, while all along
the slope white helmets and bright steel
flashed in the rising sunlight, as one after
another the men leaped to their feet and
rushed upwards. In five minutes the
struggle was over, and just as the dusty, blood¬
stained men were opening their haversacks
to snatch a hurried breakfast, a troop of the
Guides cavalry, the advance guard of the
brigade, came clattering along the mountain
road two hundred feet beneath them.

It was a proud day for R Company when
all the Fingal Valley Brigade were paraded in
hollow square to see private Fox receive the
Victoria Cross, and no man cheered louder
than Big Bob.

“‘Weepin’ Willie’ yer is, and ‘Weepin’
Willie ’ yer’ll remain,” he afterwards said to
the hero of the day, as all his comrades
gathered round to shake his hand. “I’d
weep the ’ole bloomin’ day if I thought it’d

“ I’m going to see what the enemy are up
to,” Captain Trevor said, as he clambered up
the seven-foot ledge of rock that was shelter¬
ing the two men. “ Perhaps those beggars
down there will see me then and come up ! ”

“ Weepin’ Willie ” followed in the wake of
his officer, and there the two stood in full
view of their own men, and a splendid
mark for the enemy. Once Willie almost
ducked as a bullet “ ventilated ” his helmet,
and the next moment Captain Trevor stag¬
gered, and would have fallen had not the
private caught him in his arms.

Carefully, and exerting all his strength,
for Trevor was a big man, Willie lifted him
over his shoulder, and began slowly to
descend from the ridge; but, as he gave a
last look round, he saw the tribesmen on
the summit suddenly leap to their feet, and,
brandishing their murderous knives, begin
to rush down the incline. In an instant,
Willie was up on the ledge again, and with
the full force of his lungs and his lungs
were the only big thing about him — he

THAT YOU, FOX'? GIVE ME YOUK HAND.”

WEE PIN' WILLIE.

make me behave as well as yer did under fire,
’ang me tight if I wouldn’t! ”

“ Aye ! And if yer hasks my opination, ’e‘
was weepin’ cos ’is messmates was such a
bloomin’ lot of coward, low-’earted skunks !
And so we are—compared with ’im, least¬
wise—ain’t we, mateys ? ”

“ Yes, yes. Rayther ! ” was shouted on
all sides.

Then someone got on a commissariat

The day after the 1st Battalion of Her
Majesty’s 210th Line — late of the Fingal
Valley Field Force—was landed at Plymouth,
Nellie Lindon received a registered - envelope
which contained many things. One was a
dirty scrap of paper with a few words in
pencil on it, that had been carried all
through a campaign concealed in the lining
of a private’s tunic. Then there was a
plain gun - metal Maltese’ cross with the

ON' THE LITTLE MAN STUMBLED.”

biscuit-box : “ Three cheers for ‘ Weepin’
Willie,’ our little nipper, the bravest man
in all the bloomin’ brigade ! ” And the
galvanized iron roof fairly rattled an accom¬
paniment to the lusty lungs of A Company.

words “ For Valour ” graven thereon ; and,
lastly, a line or two from Big Bob : ‘ Take
my advice, Nell,*’ he wrote, “and have the
nipper.”

And Nell did.

V9I. xvii .—Q

Animal Friendship.

By Albert H. Broadwell.

ANY of the instances of animal
sagacity with which we have
been familiar from our youth
have had but slender founda¬
tion of fact, upon which is
erected a terribly airy super¬
structure of fiction. In Mr. Shepherd’s
“ Animal Actualities,” and in the present
article, however, the anecdotes about our
lower friends are authentic—vouched for, in
fact, by their various
owners — while the
photographs from life
are indisputable evi¬
dence of their truth.

The dog, as is to
be expected, from his
occupying a position
which places him
under constant obser¬
vation, forms the sub¬
ject of more stories
than any other animal;
yet it is not known
how far his intelli¬
gence extends. Some
enthusiasts aver that
instances are on record where a member of
the canine race has committed suicide
through grief; but this certainly requires
verification. Let us listen to Mr. G. C.
Grove, however, who tells the story of “ The
Inseparables.” He says :—

“ I cannot refrain from telling the follow¬
ing story, which is vouched for by my most
intimate friend. On paying a visit to his

uncle, who is a farmer in Scotland, he
noticed a handsome young collie and a
goose with a broken wing, constantly about
together; indeed, they were well-nigh in¬
separable. On inquiry he elicited the fact
that, when a puppy, the dog had flown at a
gosling and had broken its wing; ever since,
it was noticed that the dog was not only
cognizant of the mischief he had done, but
became so repentant, that from that time
forward he had taken
that one bird under
his special protection,
though his feeling to¬
wards geese in general
remained unchanged;
and now, wherever the
dog goes, there follows
the goose, and vice
vet'sa. It is a pretty
instance of contrition,
and may be recom¬
mended as a useful
example.”

One would have
thought from stories
that have come from
Australia that dogs and kangaroos were invet¬
erate enemies. In our illustration we seem,
however, to have a direct refutation of such an
erroneous belief. We have here five dogs and
a kangaroo, the Australian placidly munching
some carrot-heads. There has been no posing
about this picture: the subjects settled them¬
selves together in the most natural fashion.

The dog has not only proved himself to

“the inseparables.”

KANGAROO ANp DOGS,

[ 4 . J. Johnson,

from a Photo. 6yl

ANIMAL FRIENDSHIP.

be man’s best friend, but he seems to show a
great deal of affection for other animals with
which he may happen to come in contact, either
■as occasional friends or more often as constant
companions. We have here, for instance, a
number of photos, showing the marvellous
way in which animals fraternize as though
they belonged to one family. Professor

Lorenzo, of 5, Crowndale Road, N.W., has a
most extraordinary collection of animals of
all kinds. It includes dogs, cats, tame rabbits
and wild rabbits, kangaroos, bantams,
pigeons, cockatoos and parrots, and other
pets. Among these we find a friendship
which is of many years’ standing. A
spaniel and bantam
are not often seen
together, yet we
have them here in
thorough good-fel¬
lowship. The dog is
a lovable creature,
and the bantam
knows it.

That very ban¬
tam, by the way, is
the most cheeky
fellow in creation.

He does not be¬
lieve in roosting in
orthodox fashion ;
but chooses, in pre¬
ference, some soft, velvety surface where¬
upon he can settle at ease and remain as
long as he pleases. As shown in the next
picture, a cat is another friend of his. Puss
is almost crushed by the weight of this most
unblushing intruder, yet she does not move,
lest she should interfere with his comfort.

Cats and rabbits next come under notice.
It may be interesting to quote a pretty story
told by Miss Hamond, of Cheltenham. She
says : “ The following incident occurred under
my own eyes during my residence in Spain.
The province of Jaen, in sunny Andalusia,
is rich in minerals, and the quaint old
country town of Linares may be called the
centre of the lead-min¬
ing district, where a
goodly number of
Englishmen have settled
down with their wives
and families and house¬
hold gods, to make the
best of life under con¬
ditions very different
from those to which
they were born.

“The children — as
children do all the world
over — used to keep a
good many pets of
different kinds, and in
one household which
I often visited—that of
Mr. Romer, manager to
one of the mining com¬
panies—their name was legion. One after¬
noon when I came in to tea there was a
great commotion in the yard; obviously
something important had happened. I knew
at once that it must be a new kind of pet
which somebody had given them.

“ 4 One of the miners has brought us some

infant rabbits,’ said Conchita, the second
girl, hardly able to speak from ill-suppressed
excitement. ‘ They are such babies, they
can’t feed themselves ; do advise us. They
will die if they are not fed soon.’ A piece
of rag dipped in milk seemed the only way
out of the difficulty; the infants took to it

From a Photo, by] bantam AND cats. 01 . J. Johnson.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

From a Photo, by] cat and rabbits. 01. J. Johnson.

at once. Indeed, they soon began to nibble
at the milk in the saucer. This problem
was evidently solved, but the weather was
very cold, and they had doubtless been accus¬
tomed to a warm fur cloak about them. So
Conchita said, 4 Might she take them to bed
with her ? ’

“‘Take them in to Molly, and see if he
will adopt them, 5 I suggested, not intending
to be taken at my word; but Conchita
thought it an excellent idea, and acted upon
it at once. We all followed her. (I must
explain here that Molly was an immense
tom-cat, fat and amiable ; he lived in the
schoolroom in a wadded basket, which just
fitted him comfortably.) ‘ He will eat them
up at once, of course, 5 remarked one of
the bystanders, ‘ and perhaps it is just as
well that he should. 5 But he didn’t. That
excellent cat allowed the mites to be
stuffed into his lap ; they at once nestled
down and Molly went off to sleep again.
Some of us looked in later in the evening to
see what had happened. That excellent cat

was sitting up washing the rabbits ! It
was the funniest thing in the world : he
evidently remembered his own nursery days,
and was doing his duty according to his
lights by his strange charges. When he

came to the long ears he
paused, evidently mildly sur¬
prised at the innovation, but
those rabbits had a thorough
licking before they finally re¬
tired to rest. This sort of
thing went on for a fortnight,
the rabbits feeding out of
Molly’s saucer of bread and
milk with him regularly, though
it soon had to be changed for
a soup-plate, and a bigger bed
had to be provided. At the

end of the fortnight the
rabbits began to take so
much exercise that it was
difficult to keep them in one
room, and there were so
many ferocious cats in the
neighbourhood that Con¬
chita decided that the rab¬
bits must be provided with
a hutch of their own, and
so the pretty little comedy
came to an end. It never
seemed to have occurred to
the amiable Molly that they
were good to eat. We used
to bring friends — scoffers
and unbelievers, who went
out converted—to that schoolroom, and if
Molly, the conscientious foster-father, were
sleepy and indisposed to show oft', we used
to put a little butter on the infants’ backs.
This never failed to wake him up and induce
him to perform their toilet with much
energy. 55

One of our Australian friends, who prefers
his name not to be published, but whose
statements we have very good reasons to
believe to be absolutely true, sends us the
extraordinary photo, given below. “Away
out in New Zealand, 55 our kindly corre¬
spondent was able to take this curious pic¬
ture. He tells the following story in con¬
nection with it: “ Everyone knows how

deficient in sense of maternal responsibility
are mother ducks, and some ducklings of
mine, appearing neglected, were put into a
small box, with flannel, to add to their
comfort. As one of our cats happened to
be present, and inspected them with some
interest, my wife said to her, 4 Here are
some kittens for you, Minna. 5 Without
more ado Minna jumped into the box, and
there and then adopted them as hei very
own. When they fell out of the box, she
very tenderly picked them up in her mouth
and replaced them. When they pecked at

CAT AND DUCKLINGS.

ANIMAL FRIENDSHIP.

her after the manner of their kind, she very
gently reproached them with her paw, and
seemed to try and tell them in her own
language that she had never seen well-
behaved kittens behave in that way before.
Altogether they became a very happy family.”
Our correspon¬
dent says noth¬
ing of their
ultimate fate, but
we would imag¬
ine that when
the ducklings
first took to the
water, the foster-
mother’s grief
must have been
extremely touch¬
ing. “On another
occasion, how¬
ever,” adds the
owner of the
ducklings, “I
was standing,
one evening,
watching my
Aylesburys wad¬
dling home to
supper and bed
after ‘ a happy
day at the sea¬
side,’ when I
noticed a little
black-and-white duckling evidently not theirs,
which to my surprise was with them. It
stopped and looked at me as the others
passed, and seemed to ask, ‘ What are
you going to do with me?’ I picked it
up and called the old cat. Putting the
duckling in a box, I said, * There is another
kitten for you, Minna.’ Without a moment’s
hesitation she once more
undertook her strange
maternal duty, and took
charge of the mite for some
days, till she thought the
little one old enough to face
a hard and cruel world by
itself. The duckling, which
was called Kitty after its
foster-mother, used to follow
her about the garden and up
and down the veranda stairs.

At last, however, some boys
- for there are cruel and
thoughtless boys even in
New Zealand—killed it with
a stone.”

Qf foster-mothers we have

CAUGHT IN
brom a Copyright Stereo Photo.

indeed some extraordinary instances. They
show the truthful confidence with which little
suckling animals will approach, and regard
as their mother, beasts of quite a different
species. We have here two instances of suck¬
ling pigs. In the one case we have an amusing

picture, showing
how the little
porker was
caught in the act,
not only by the
camera, but by
the jolly farmer
in the back¬
ground. Stealing
milk from a cow,
whose yield in
consequence fell
noticeably short,
was an injudic¬
ious thing to do,
but it would not
have mattered
much had piggie
not been caught.
The second
photo., which
exemplifies a
peculiar coinci¬
dence, was sent
in by Mr. J. A.
Hern, of Wayne,
Nebraska, U.S. A.
It is a striking confirmation of the preceding
incident, with the difference that, instead of
one thief only, we have three, and already
well satisfied they look.

Another peculiar pair hail from the States.
They live in Walsenburg, Colorado, the
photo, being sent in by Mr. Thomas Bunker,
of that town. The mother ass in this case is

THE ACT.

by Underwood <t' Underwood.

WHY JERSEY LILY GAVE NO MILK.

4 6

THE STEANE MAGAZINE.

AN INFRINGEMENT OF FILIAL RIGHTS.

From a Photo, by Thomas Bunker , Walsenburg, Colorado.

a most interesting animal. Her ordinary
occupation is that of wood-carrier, as may be
gathered from the load on her patient back;
but besides having to suckle her own offspring,
standing so gloomy, sad-eyed, and reproachful
on the right, she also has to nurse the
exuberant little lamb seen in the very act of
robbing the little donkey foal of its natural
right. The three animals belong to an old
Mexican, and the lamb was reared entirely
on the milk of the mother ass.

The pretty terrier shown in the next illus¬
tration was once the happy mother of an
even happier family. Unfortunately, the
puppies all died soon after birth, leaving the
mother broken-hearted. For a long while
the dog was inconsolable. It refused its
food, moped, and grew thin. One day, how¬
ever, a tiny, motherless kitten was given to
it. The gift turned out to be the dog’s

salvation ; it took
the greatest care of
the little creature,
and woe betide
the unfortunate
stranger who ven¬
tured too near her
precious charge.
These pets belong
to Miss J. Dresser,
of Bexley Heath,
Kent, and we are
indebted to her
kindness for this
interesting photo-
graph.

Mr. Edward T.
Williams, of Ted-
worth Square,
Chelsea, owns a
dove and a dog.
There is nothing very fresh in this item of
news; but wait a moment: that dog will carry
the dove on his head for more than a quarter
of a mile ! They are the staunchest of friends,
and as soon
as the door of
the cage is
opened, out
' hurries the
dove. It
searches for
the dog, if the
latter should
not already
happen to be
waiting for his
rider in the immediate neighbourhood, and the
dog seems to consider it as an absolute duty to
carry his friend about in this comical fashion.

Amongst other quaint and extraordinary
friendships between
animals of diverse species,
one of the most interest¬
ing is that so frequently
struck up between cats
and horses. Pussie loves
to make a fragrant, hay-
scented stable her daily
lounge and to nestle
against the warm coat of
the horse, who often takes
his night’s repose lying in
his stall with the favoured
Grimalkin snugly sleeping
between his iron - shod
hoofs. It was in Brook
Mews, N., that the animal
in question was “ snapped”

Fro™ « Photo, by] a despairing mother’s salvation. [A. R. Dresser.

DOG AND DOVE.

ANIMAL FRIENDSHIP.

amidst the eager and
excited observations of
the many bystanders,
who quickly thronged
to see the fun.

The ladies who
have risen to such an
elevated position in
life- are mother and
daughter. The sedate
matron is fully alive
to the importance of
the occasion, and has
adopted an easy, grace¬
ful pose; while the
youngster, frisky and
somewhat shy, was with
difficulty persuaded to
settle comfortably
down. Mother cat is
an animal of very, self-
contained and amiable
disposition. She has
contracted a fast friend¬
ship . with two white From a Photo . by]
rabbits belonging to

the coachman’s little boy. They live in a
hutch in the stables, and are often allowed a
little liberty for a frolic with puss, who
chases them in and out of an empty stall.

From Covington, U.S.A., comes another
remarkable instance. Mr. E. E. Cone, of
that town, has a hen that displays a remark¬
ably perverted maternal instinct. One of
the neighbours has a cat with four small
kittens. The cat would be faithful to her
offspring were she not prevented by the
following circumstance. This particular hen
had been sitting for some time when
she suddenly conceived the idea that
the care of the kittens was more to her
liking. She, therefore, promptly drove the

[«/. Marks.

Pxom a Photo, by]

HEN AND KITTENS.

mother cat away and took possession of the
kits. No hen-mother ever watched over her
brood with greater care than has this one over
her mewing, squirming litter of kittens. The
kittens offer no objection, and, with the ex¬
ception of the old cat, who looks on at a safe
distance, all is serene in this anomalous
family. In our photograph the hen is shown
endeavouring to cover the four kittens with
her wings, but it does not seem a very easy
task.

Extraordinary as this instance may seem,
we have in a way a parallel to it. We see a
cat taking under her charge some newly-born
chicks in much the same way as the mother-
hen did with the kittens. Mr. C. K. Eaton,
of Melbourne House,
Montpelier, Bristol, very
kindly sends us the photo-
graph.

It appears that, through
some inexplicable reason
of her own, the mother of
the chicks deserted them
almost immediately after
being hatched, and con¬
sequently, there being no
other means of rearing.
them, they were for some
time kept in the kitchen,
where, after a few days,
they became fast friends
nr. j. Cone, Covington, iii. with puss, who proved a

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

splendid substitute for the mother
hen. She seldom left them, and
when they were able to get about
she, for a long time, followed them
about the garden. The sight,
needless to add, was an extremely
pathetic one.

Miss Powell, of the Grove,
Bishopton, Ripon, very kindly
sends us the annexed amusing
little photo, of a guinea-pig with
a tame rat on its back. Now, who
would ever have thought of such
a peculiar freak of friendship? The
pig is one of a pair, which Miss
Powell has trained in harness.
Brutus drags fair Venus about the
room in a miniature coach. They
are now being taught to sit in
loving companionship at a tea-
table The rat is a tame one,
and is an adept at various clever

CAT AND CHICKS.

From a Photo, by IF. Perkins , Wickwar.

could a respectable farmer do with a brood
of young foxes ? Now, it happened that
only a day or two before this remarkable
find, a fine collie owned by the farmer
had become the happy mother of a family
of her own. The little collies were
speedily disposed of, and the young brood
of foxes given to the mother and left
to her kind solicitude. Wonderful to
relate, the dog took very kindly to them,
and actually suckled them for five or six
weeks.

GUINEA-PIG AND RAT.

feats, in the imitation of
which the guinea-pigs are
nowhere.

And now for the strangest
instance in our collection.
This astonishing photograph
of a collie suckling a brood
of young foxes was taken
by Mr. Brown at a farm
near Lanark. The little
rascals were found in a den
not a hundred miles from
the farm. The farmer, with
due solicitude, secured the
little family, and took it to
IPs own fire-side. But what

From a Photo, by] collie and foxes. [A.Broum&Co.ilAiiiark.

Miss Cayleys Adventures.

By Grant Allen.

XI.—THE ADVENTURE OF THE ORIENTAL ATTENDANT.

DID not sleep that night.
Next morning, I rose very
early from a restless bed with
a dry, hot mouth and a general
feeling that the solid earth had
failed beneath me.

. Still no.news from Harold ! It was cruel,

I thought. - My. faith almost flagged. . He
was a man and should be brave. How could
he run away and hide himself at such a
time ? Even if I set my own anxiety aside,
just think to what serious misapprehension it
laid him open !

I sent out for the morning papers. They
were full of Harold. Rumours, rumours,
rumours! Mr. Tillington had deliberately
chosen to put himself in the wrong by disap¬
pearing mysteriously at the last moment.
Lie had only himself to blame if the worst
interpretation were put upon his action.
But the police were on his track ; Scotland
Yard had “a clue”: it was confidently ex¬
pected an arrest would be made before
evening at latest. As to details, authorities
differed. The officials of the Great Western
Railway at Paddington were convinced that
Mr. Tillington had started, alone and undis¬
guised, by the night express for Exeter. The
South-Eastern inspectors at Charing Cross,
on the other hand, were equally certain that
he had slipped away with a false beard, in
company with “ his accomplice,” Higginson,
by the 8.15 p.m. to Paris. Everybody took
it for granted, however, that he had left
London.

Conjecture played with various ultimate
destinations—Spain, Morocco, Sicily, the
Argentine. . In Italy, said the Chronicle , he
might lurk for a while —he spoke Italian
fluently, and could manage to put up at tiny
osterie in out-of-the-way places seldom visited
by Englishmen. He might try Albania,
said the Morning Post , airing its exclusive
“ society ” information : he had often hunted
there, and might in turn be hunted. He
would probably attempt to slink away to
some remote spot in the Carpathians or the
Balkans, said the Daily News , quite proud
of its geography. Still, wherever he went,
leaden-footed justice in this age, said the
Times, must surely overtake him. The day

Voi. xvii.—7.

of universal extradition had dawned; we
had no more Alsatias : even the Argentine
itself gives up its rogues—at last; not an
asylum for crime remains in Europe, not a
refuge in Asia, Africa, America, Australia,
or the Pacific Islands.

I noted with a shudder of horror that
all the papers alike took his guilt as certain.
In spite of a few decent pretences at not pre¬
judging an untried cause, they treated him
already as the detected criminal, the fugitive
from justice. I sat in my little sitting-room at
the hotel in Jermyn Street, a limp rag, looking
idly out of the window with swimming eyes,
and waiting for Lady Georgina. It was
early, too early, but—oh, why didn’t she
come! Unless somebody soon sympathized
with me, my heart would break under this
load of loneliness !

Presently, as I looked out on the sloppy
morning street, I was vaguely aware
through the mist that floated before my
dry eyes (for tears were denied me) of a
very grand carriage driving up to the door¬
way—the porch with the four wooden
Ionic pillars. I took no heed of it. I was
too heart-sick for observation. My life was
wrecked, and Harold’s with it. Yet, dimly
through the mist, I became conscious after a
while that the carriage was that of an Indian
prince ; I could see the black faces, the white
turbans, the gold brocades of the attendants
in the dickey. Then it came home to me
with a pang that this was the Maharajah.

It was kindly meant; yet after all that had
been insinuated in court the day before, I
was by no means over-pleased that his dusky
Highness should come to call upon me.
Walls have eyes and ears. Reporters were
hanging about all over London, eager to
distinguish themselves by successful eaves¬
dropping. They would note, with brisk
innuendoes after their kind, how “ the
Maharajah of Moozuffernuggar called early
in the day on Miss Lois Cayley, with whom
he remained for at least half an hour in close
consultation.” I had half a mind to send
down a message that I could not see him.
My face still burned with the undeserved
shame of the cross-eyed Q.C.’s unspeakable
suggestions.

5 °

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE.

Before I could make my mind up, however,
I saw to my surprise that the Maharajah did
not propose to come in himself. He leaned
back in his place with his lordly Eastern air,
and waited, looking down on the gapers in
the street, while one of the two gorgeous
attendants in the dickey descended obsequi¬
ously to receive his orders. The man was
dressed as usual in rich Oriental stuffs, and
wore his full white turban swathed in folds
round his head. I could not see his features.
He bent forward respectfully with Oriental
suppleness to take his Highness’s orders.
Then, receiving a card and bowing low, he
entered the porch with the wooden Ionic
pillars, and disappeared within, while the
Maharajah folded his hands and seemed to
resign himself to a temporary Nirvana.

A minute later, a knock sounded on my
door. “ Come in ! 55 I said, faintly ; and the
messenger entered.

him. Even at that crucial moment of doubt
and fear, I could not help noticing how
admirably he made up as a handsome
young Rajput. Three years earlier, at
Schlangenbad, I remembered he had struck
me as strangely Oriental-looking: he had
the features of a high-born Indian gentle¬
man, without the complexion. His large,
poetical eyes, his regular, oval face, his
even teeth, his mouth and moustache,
all vaguely recalled the highest type of
the Eastern temperament. Now, he had
blackened his face and hands with some
permanent stain — Indian ink, I learned
later—and the resemblance to a Rajput
chief was positively startling. In his gold
brocade and ample white turban, no passer¬
by, I felt sure, would ever have dreamt of
doubting him.

“ Then you knew me at once ? ” he said,
holding my face between his hands.

“ THE MESSENGER ENTERED.”

I turned and faced him. The blood
rushed to my cheek. “ Harold ! ” I cried,
darting forward. My joy overcame me. He
folded me in his arms. I allowed him, un¬
reproved. For the first time he kissed me.
I did not shrink from it.

Then I stood away a little and gazed at

“ That ; s bad, darling ! I flattered myself I
had transformed my face into the complete
Indian.”

“ Love has sharp eyes,” I answered. “ It
can see through brick walls. But the
disguise is perfect. No one else would
detect you.”

MISS CAYLEY’S ADVENTURES.

5 *

“ Love is blind, I thought.”

“Not where it ought to see. There, it
pierces everything. I knew you instantly,
Harold. But all London, I am sure, would
pass you by, unknown. You are absolute
Orient.”

“ That’s well; for all London is looking for
me,” he answered, bitterly. “The streets
bristle with detectives. Southminster’s
knaveries have won the day. So I have
tried this disguise. Otherwise, I should have
been arrested the moment the jury brought
in their verdict.”

“ And why were you not ? ” I asked, draw¬
ing back. “ Oh, Harold, I trust you ; but
why did you disappear and make all the
world believe you admitted yourself guilty ? ”

He opened his arms. “ Can’t you guess ? ”
he cried, holding them out to me.

I nestled in them once more; but I
answered through my tears—I had found
tears now—“ No, Harold; it baffles me.”

“ You remember what you promised me ? ”
he murmured, leaning over me and clasping
me. “ If ever I were poor, friendless, hunted
—you would marry me. Now the opportunity
has come when we can both prove ourselves.
To-day, except you and dear Georgey, I
haven’t* a friend in the world. Everyone else
has turned against me. Southminster holds
the field. I am a suspected forger; in a
very few days I shall doubtless be a con¬
victed felon. Unjustly, as you know; yet
still -we must face it -a convicted felon. So
I have come to claim you. I have come to
ask you now, in this moment of despair, will
you keep your promise ? ”

I lifted my face to his. He bent over it
trembling. I whispered the words in his ear.
“ Yes, Harold, I will keep it. I have always
loved you. And now I will marry you.”

“ I knew you would ! ” he cried, and
pressed me to his bosom.

We sat for some minutes, holding each
other’s hands, and saying nothing ; we
were too full of thought for words. Then
suddenly, Harold roused himself. “We must
make haste, darling,” he cried. “ We are
keeping Partab outside, and every minute is
precious, every minute’s delay dangerous.
We ought to go down at once. Partab’s
carriage is waiting at the door for us.”

“ Go down ? ” I exclaimed, clinging to
him. “How? Why? I don’t understand.
What is your programme? ”

“ Ah, I forgot I hadn’t explained to you !
Listen here, dearest -quick ; I can waste no
words over it. I said just now I had no
friends in the world but you and Georgey.

That’s not true, for dear old Partab has
stuck to me nobly. When all my English
friends fell away, the Rajput was true to me.
He arranged all this; it was his own idea;
he foresaw what was coming. He urged me
yesterday, just before the verdict (when he
saw my acquaintances beginning to look
askance), to slip quietly out of court, and
make my way by unobtrusive roads to his
house in Curzon Street. There, he darkened
my face like his, and converted me to
Hinduism. I don’t suppose the disguise
will serve me for more than a day or two ;
but it will last long enough for us to get
safely away to Scotland.”

“ Scotland ? ” I murmured. “ Then you
mean to try a Scotch marriage ? ”

“ It is the only thing possible. We must
be married to-day, and in England, of course,
we cannot do it. We would have to be
called in church, or else to procure a license,
either of which would involve disclosure of
my identity. Besides, even the license would
keep us waiting about for a day or two.
In Scotland, on the other hand, we can be
married at once. Partab’s carriage is below,
to take you to Euston. He is staunch as
steel, dear fellow. Do you consent to go
with me?”

My faculty for promptly making up such
mind as 1 possess stood me once more in
good stead. “ Implicitly,” I answered.
“ Dear Harold, this calamity has its happy
side—for without it, much as I love you,
I could never have brought myself to marry
you ! ”

“ One moment,” he cried. “ Before you
go, recollect, this step is irrevocable. You
will marry a man who may be torn from you
this evening, and from whom fourteen years
of prison may separate you.”

“ I know it,” I cried, through my tears.
“ But I shall be showing my confidence in
you, my love for you.”

He kissed me once more, fervently.
“ This makes amends for all,” he cried.
“ Lois, to have won such a woman as you, I
would go through it all a thousand times
over. It was for this, and for this alone,
that I hid myself last night. I wanted to
give you the chance of showing me how
much, how truly you loved me.”

“ And after we are married ? ” I asked,
trembling.

“I shall give myself up at once to the
police in Edinburgh.”

I clung to him wistfully. My heart half
urged me to urge him to escape. But I
knew that was wrong. “ Give yourself up,

5 2

THE STEAND MAGAZINE.

then,” I said, sobbing. “ It is a brave man’s
place. You must stand your trial: and, come
what will, I will strive to bear it with you.”

“ I knew you would,” he cried. “ I was
not mistaken in you.”

We embraced again, just once. It was
little enough after those years of waiting.

“ Now, come ! ” he cried. “ Let us go.”

I drew back. “Not with you, dearest,”
I whispered. “Not in the Maharajah’s
carriage. You must start by yourself. I
will follow you at once, to Euston, in a
hansom.”

He saw I was right. It would avoid
suspicion, and it would prevent more scandal.
He withdrew without a word. “ We meet,”
I said, “at ten, at Euston.”

I did not even wait to wash the tears from
my eyes. All red as they were, I put on my
hat and my little brown travelling jacket. I
don’t think I so much as glanced once at the
glass. The seconds were precious. I saw
the Maharajah drive away, with Harold in
the dickey, arms crossed, imperturbable,
Orientally silent. He looked the very counter¬
part of the Rajput by his side. Then I
descended the stairs and walked out boldly.
As I passed through the hall, the servants
and the visitors stared at me and whispered.
They spoke with nods and liftings of the
eyebrows. I was aware that that morning I
had achieved notoriety.

At Piccadilly Circus, I jumped of a
sudden into a passing hansom. “ Euston ! ”
I cried, as I mounted the step. “ Drive
quick ! I have no time to spare.” And, as
the man drove off, I saw, by a convulsive
dart of someone across the road, that I had
given the slip to a disappointed reporter.

At the station I took a first-class ticket
for Edinburgh. On the platform, the Maha¬
rajah and his attendants were waiting. He
lifted his hat to me, though otherwise he
took no overt notice. But I saw his keen
eyes follow me down the train. Harold, in
his Oriental dress, pretended not to observe
me. One or two porters, and a few curious
travellers, cast inquiring eyes on the Eastern
prince, and made remarks about him to one
another. “ That’s the chap as was up yes¬
terday in the Ashurst will kise ! ” said one
lounger to his neighbour. But nobody
seemed to look at Harold; his subordinate
position secured him from curiosity. The
Maharajah had always two Eastern servants,
gorgeously dressed, in attendance; he had
been a well-known figure in London society,
and at Lord’s and the Oval, for two or three
seasons.

“ Bloomin’ fine cricketer ! ” one porter
observed to his mate as he passed.

“ Yuss ; not so dusty for a nigger,” the
other man replied. “ Fust-rite bowler ; but,
Lord, he can’t ’old a candle to good old
Ranji.”

As for myself, nobody seemed to recognise
me. I set this fact down to the fortunate
circumstance that the evening papers had
published rough wood-cuts which professed
to be my portrait, and which naturally
led the public to look out for a brazen-faced,
raw-boned, hard-featured termagant.

I took my seat in a ladies’ compartment
by myself. As the train was about to start,
Harold strolled up as if casually for a
moment. “You think it better so?” he
queried, without moving his lips or seeming
to look at me.

“ Decidedly,” I answered. “ Go back to
Partab. Don’t come near me again till we
get to Edinburgh. It is dangerous still.
The police may at any moment hear we have
started and stop us half-way ; and now that
we have once committed ourselves to this
plan, it would be fatal to be. interrupted
before we have got married.”

“You are right,” he cried; “Lois, you are
always right, somehow.”

I wished I could think so myself; but
’twas with serious misgivings that I felt the
train roll out of the station.

Oh, that long journey north, alone, in a
ladies’ compartment—with the feeling that
Harold was so near, yet so unapproach¬
able : it was an endless agony. He had the
Maharajah, who loved and admired him, to
keep him from brooding; but I, left alone,
and confined with my own fears, conjured
up before my eyes every possible misfortune
that Heaven could Send us. I saw clearly
now that if we failed in our purpose this
journey would be taken by everyone for a
flight, and would deepen the suspicion under
which we both laboured. It would make me
still more obviously a conspirator with Harold.

Whatever happened, we must strain every
nerve to reach Scotland in safety, and then
to get married, in order that Harold might
immediately surrender himself.

At York, I noticed with a thrill of terror
that a man in plain clothes, with the obtru¬
sively unobtrusive air of a detective, looked
carefully though casually into every carriage.
I felt sure he was a spy, because of his
marked outer jauntiness of demeanour, which
hardly masked an underlying hang-dog ex¬
pression of scrutiny. When he reached my
place, he took a long, careless stare at me—

MISS CAYLEY'S ADVENTURES.

a seemingly careless stare, which was yet
brim-full of the keenest observation. Then
he paced slowly along the line of carriages,
with a glance at each, till he arrived just
opposite the Maharajah’s compartment.
There he stared hard once more. The
Maharajah descended; so did Harold and

be impossible for us to get married at
Edinburgh if we were thus closely pursued.
There was but one chance open ; we must
leave the train abruptly at the first Scotch
stopping station.

The detective knew we were booked
through for Edinburgh. So much I could

“he took a long, careless stare at me."

the Hindu attendant, who was dressed
just like him. The man I took for a
detective indulged in a frank, long gaze at
the unconscious Indian prince, but cast only
a hasty eye on the two apparent followers.
That touch of revelation relieved my mind a
little. I felt convinced the police were
watching the Maharajah and myself, as sus¬
picious persons connected with the case ; but
they had not yet guessed that Harold had
disguised himself as one of the two invariable
Rajput servants.

We steamed on northward. At Newcastle,
the same detective strolled, with his hands in
his pockets, along the train once more,
and puffed a cigar with the nonchalant air
of a sporting gentleman. But I was certain
now, from the studious unconcern he was
anxious to exhibit, that he must be a spy
upon us. He overdid his mood of careless
observation. It was too obvious an assump¬
tion. Precisely the same thing happened
again when we pulled up at Berwick. I
knew now that we were watched. It would

tell, because I saw him make inquiries of the
ticket examiner at York, and again at Berwick,
and because the ticket-examiner thereupon
entered a mental note of the fact as he
punched my ticket each time: “ Oh, Edin¬
burgh, miss ? All right ” ; and then stared at
me suspiciously. I could tell he had heard
of the Ashurst will case. He also lingered
long about the Maharajah’s compartment,
and then went back to confer with the detec¬
tive. Thus, putting two and two together,
as a woman will, I came to the conclusion
that the spy did not expect us to leave the
train before we reached Edinburgh. That
told in our favour. Most men trust much to
just such vague expectations. They form a
theory, and then neglect the adverse chances.
You can only get the better of a skilled
detective by taking him thus, psychologically
and humanly.

By this time, I confess, I felt almost like
a criminal. Never in my life had danger
loomed so near—not even when we returned
with die Arabs from the oasis. For then

THE STEAND MAGAZINE .

we feared for our lives alone; now, we feared
for our honour.

I drew a card from my case before we
left Berwick station, and scribbled a few
hasty words on it in German. “We are
watched. A detective ! If we run through
to Edinburgh, we shall doubtless be arrested
or at least impeded.- This train will stop
at Dunbar for one minute. Just before it
leaves again, get out as quietly as you can
— at the last moment. I will also get out
and join you. Let Partab go on ; it
will excite less attention.

The scheme I suggest
is the only safe plan.

If you agree, as soon
as we have well started
from Berwick, shake
your handkerchief un¬
obtrusively out of your
carriage window.”

I beckoned a porter
noiselessly without one
word. The detective
was now strolling along
the fore - part of the
train, with his back
turned towards me, peer¬
ing as he went into all
the windows. I gave
the porter a shilling.

“Take this to a black
gentleman in the next
carriage but one,” I
said, in confidential
whisper. The porter
touched his hat, nodded,
smiled, and took it.

Would Harold see
the necessity for acting
on my advice ?—I won¬
dered. I gazed out
along the train as soon
as we had got well clear
of Berwick. A minute
- two minutes — three
minutes passed ; and
still no handkerchief. I began to despair.
He was debating, no doubt. If he refused,
all was lost, and we were disgraced for ever.

At last, after long waiting, as I stared still
along the whizzing line, with the smoke in
my eyes, and the dust half blinding me, I saw,
to my intense relief, a handkerchief flutter.
It fluttered once, not markedly, then a black
hand withdrew it. Only just in time, for
even as it disappeared, the detective’s head
thrust itself out of a farther window. He
was not looking for anything in particular, as

far as I could tell—just observing the signals.
But it gave me a strange thrill to think even
now we were so nearly defeated.

My next trouble was—would the train
draw up at Dunbar? The io a.m. from
Euston is not set down to stop there in
Bradshaw, for no passengers are booked to
or from the station by the day express ; but
I remembered from of old when I lived at
Edinburgh, that it used always to wait about
a minute for some engine-driver’s purpose.
This doubt filled me with fresh fear; did it
draw up there still ?—
they have accelerated
the service so much of
late years, and abolish¬
ed so many old accus¬
tomed stoppages. I
counted the familiar
stations with my breath
held back. They seemed
so much farther apart
than usual. Reston—
Grant’s House — Cock-
burnspath—Innerwick.

The next was Dun¬
bar. If we rolled past
that, then all was lost.
We could never get
married. I trembled
and hugged myself.

The engine screamed.
Did that mean she was
running through ? Oh,
how I wished I had
learned the interpreta¬
tion of the signals !

Then gradually, gently,
we began to slow. Were
we slowing to pass the
station only ? No ; with
a jolt she drew up. My
heart gave a bound as I
read the word “ Dun¬
bar ” on the station

notice-board.

I rose and waited,

with my fingers on the door. Happily

it had one of those new-fashioned slip-
latches which open from inside. No need
to betray myself prematurely to the detec¬
tive by a hand displayed on the outer
handle. I glanced out at him cautiously.
His head was thrust through his window,
and his sloping shoulders revealed the
spy, but he was looking the other way—

observing the signals, doubtless, to discover
why we stopped at a place not mentioned in
Bradshaw.

“ I BECKONED A PORTER. ”

MISS CAYLEY’S ADVENTURES.

Harold’s face just showed from another
window close by. Too soon or too late
might either of them be fatal. He glanced
inquiry at me. I nodded back, “Now!”
The train gave its first jerk, a faint backward
jerk, indicative of the nascent intention of
starting. As it braced itself to go on, I
jumped out; so did Harold. We faced one
another on the platform without a word.
“ Stand away there ! ” the station-master cried,
in an angry voice, and waved his white flag.
The detective, still absorbed on the signals,
never once looked back. One second later,
we were safe at Dunbar, and he was speeding
away by the express for Edinburgh!

It gave us a breathing space of about an
hour.

For half a minute I could not speak. My
heart was in my mouth. I hardly even dared
to look at Harold. Then the station-master
stalked up to us with a threatening manner.
“You can’t get out here,” he said, crustily, in

at Dunbar; and as the train happened to
pull up, we thought we needn’t waste time by
going on all that way and then coming back
again.”

“ Ye should have changed at Berwick,”
the station-master said, still gruffly, “ and
come on by the slow train.” I could see
his careful Scotch soul was vexed (inci¬
dentally) at our extravagance in paying
the extra fare to Edinburgh and back
again.

In spite of agitation, I managed to summon
up one of my sweetest smiles—a smile that
ere now had melted the hearts of rickshaw
coolies and of French douaniers. He thawed
before it visibly. “ Time was important to
us,” I said — oh, he guessed not how im¬
portant ; “ and besides, you know, it is so
good for the company ! ”

“ That’s true,” he answered, mollified. He
could not tilt against the interests of the
North British shareholders. “But how about

‘you can’t get out here,’ he said, crustily.”

a gruff Scotch voice. “This train is not
timed to set down before Edinburgh.”

“We have got out,” I answered, taking it
upon me to speak for my fellow-culprit, the
Hindu—as he was to all seeming. “The
logic of facts is with us. We were booked
through to Edinburgh, but we wanted to stop

yer luggage? It'll have gone on to Edin¬
burgh, I’m thinking.”

“We have no luggage,” I answered, boldly.

He stared at us both, puckered his brow a
moment, and then burst out laughing. “ Oh,
ay, I see,” he answered, with a comic air of
amusement. “ Well, well, it’s none of my

THE S TEA NT MAGAZINE.

business, no doubt, and I will not interfere

with ye; though why a lady like you-”

He glanced curiously at Harold.

I saw he had guessed right, and thought it
best to throw myself unreservedly on his

“ Can we get a trap ? ”

“ Oh, ay, there’s machines always waiting
at the station.”

We interviewed a “machine,” and drove
out to Little Kirkton. There, we told our

mercy. Time was indeed important. I
glanced at the station clock. It was not
very far from the stroke of six, and we must
manage to get married before the detective
could miss us at Edinburgh, where he was
due at 6.30.

So I smiled once more, that heart-soften¬
ing smile. “ We have each our own fancies,”
I $aid, blushing—and, indeed (such is the
pride of race among women), I felt myself
blush in earnest at the bare idea that I was
marrying a black man, in spite of our good
Maharajah’s kindness. “ He is a gentleman,
and a man of education and culture.” 1
thought that recommendation ought to tell
with a Scotchman. “ We are in sore straits
now, but our case is a just one. Can you tell
me who in this place is most likely to
sympathize—most likely to marry us ? ”

He looked at me—and surrendered at
discretion. “ I should think anybody would
marry ye who saw yer pretty face and heard
yer sweet voice,” he answered. “But, perhaps,
ye’d better present yerself to Mr. Schoolcraft,
the U.P. minister at Little Kirkton. He
was ay soft-hearted.”

“ How far from here ? ” I asked.

“ About two miles,” he answered.

tale in the fewest words possible to the
obliging and good-natured U.P. minister.
He looked, as the station-master had said,
“ soft-hearted ” : but he dashed our hopes to
the ground at once by telling us candidly
that unless we had had our residence in
Scotland for twenty-one days immediately
preceding the marriage, it would not be legal.
“If you were Scotch,” he added, “ I could
go through the ceremony at once, of course ;
and then you could apply to the sheriff to¬
night for leave to register the marriage in
proper form afterward : but as one of you is
English, and the other I judge ”—he smiled
and glanced towards Harold—“an Indian-
born subject of Her Majesty, it would be
impossible for me to do it: the ceremony
would be' invalid, under Lord Brougham’s
Act, without previous residence.”

This was a terrible blow. I looked away
appealingly. “ Harold,” I cried in despair,
“ do you think we could manage to hide our¬
selves safely anywhere in Scotland for twenty-
one days ? ”

PI is face fell. “ How could I escape
notice? All the world is hunting for me.
And then, the scandal! No matter where
you stopped — however far from me—no,

MISS CAYLEY’S ADVENTURES.

Lois, darling, I could never expose you
to it.”

The minister glanced from one to the
other of us, puzzled. “ Harold ? ” he said,
turning over the word on his tongue.
“ Harold ? That doesn’t sound like an

Indian name, does it ? And-” he

hesitated, “ you speak wonderful English ! ”

I saw the safest plan was to make a clean
breast of it. He looked the sort of man one
could trust on an emergency. “You have
heard of the Ashurst will case ? ” I said,
blurting it out suddenly.

“ I have seen something about it in the
newspapers; yes. But it did not interest
me: I have not followed it.”

I told him the whole truth; the case
against us — the facts as we knew them.
Then I added, slowly, “ This is Mr. Harold
Tillington, whom they accuse of forgery.
Does he look like a forger? I want to
marry him before he is tried. It is the only
way by which I can prove my implicit trust
in him. As soon as we are married, he will
give himself up at once to the police—if you
wish it, before your eyes. But married we
must be. Can’t you manage it somehow ? ”

My pleading voice touched him. “ Harold
Tillington ? ” he murmured. “ I know of his
forebears. Lady Guinevere Tillington’s son,
is it not? Then you must be Younger of
Gledcliffe.” For Scotland is a village: every¬
one in it seems to have heard of every other.

“What does he mean?” I asked. “Younger
of Gledcliffe?” I remembered now that
the phrase had occurred in Mr. Ashurst’s will,
though I never understood it.

“ A Scotch fashion,” Harold answered.
“ The heir to a laird is called Younger of so-
and-so. My father has a small estate of that
name in Dumfriesshire; a very small estate :
I was born and brought up there.”

“ Then you are a Scotchman ? ” the
minister asked.

“ I have never counted myself so,” Harold
answered, frankly: “except by remote descent.
We are trebly of the female line at Gledcliffe;
still, I am no doubt more or less Scotch by
domicile.”

“ Younger of Gledcliffe ! Oh, yes, that
ought certainly to be quite sufficient for our
purpose. But then—the lady ? ”

“She is unmitigatedly English,” Harold
admitted, in a gloomy voice.

“Not quite,” I answered. “ I lived four
years in Edinburgh. And I spent my
holidays there while I was at Girton. I keep
my boxes still at my old rooms in Maitland
Street.”

i Vol. xvii.—8.

“Oh, that will do,” the minister answered,
quite relieved; for it was clear that our
anxiety and the touch of romance in our tale
had enlisted him in our favour. “ Indeed,
now I come to think of it, it suffices
for the Act if one only of the parties is
domiciled in Scotland. Still, I can do nothing
save marry you now by religious service in
the presence of my servants—which con¬
stitutes what we call an ecclesiastical marriage
—it becomes legal if afterwards registered ;
and then you must apply to the sheriff for a
warrant to register it. But I will do what I
can; later on, if you like, you can be re¬
married by the rites of your own Church in
England.”

“ Are you quite sure our Scotch domicile
is good enough in law ? ” Harold asked, still
doubtful.

“ I can turn it up, if you wish. I have a
legal hand-book. Before Lord Brougham’s
Act, no formalities were necessary. But the
Act was passed to prevent Gretna Green
marriages. The usual phrase is that such a
marriage does not hold good unless one or
other of the parties either has had his or her
usual residence in Scotland, or else has lived
there for twenty-one days immediately pre¬
ceding the date of the marriage. If you
like, I will wait to consult the authorities.”

“No, thank you,” I cried. “There is no
time to lose. Marry us first, and look it up
afterwards. ‘ One or other ’ will do, it seems.
Mr. Tillington is Scotch enough, I am sure;
we will rest our claim upon that. Even if
the marriage turns out invalid, we only
remain where we were. This is a preliminary
ceremony to prove good faith, and to bind us
to one another. We can satisfy the law, if
need be, when we return to England.”

The minister called in his wife and servants,
and explained to them briefly. Lie exhorted
us and prayed. We gave our solemn consent
in legal form before five witnesses. Then he
pronounced us duly married. In a quarter
of an hour more, we had made declaration to
that effect before the sheriff, and were form¬
ally affirmed to be man and wife before the
law of Great Britain. I asked if it would
hold in England as well.

“ You couldn’t be firmer married,” the
sheriff said, with decision, “ by the Archbishop
of Canterbury in Westminster Abbey.”

Harold turned to the minister. “Will
you send for the police ? ” he said, * calmly.
“ I wish to inform them that I am the man
for whom they are looking in the Ashurst
will case.”

Our own cabman went to fetch them. It

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

was a terrible moment. But Harold sat in
the sheriffs study and waited, as if nothing
unusual were happening. He talked freely
but quietly. Never in my life had 1 felt so
proud of him.

At last the police came, much inflated with
the dignity of so great a capture, and took
down our statement. “ Do you give yourself
in charge on a confession of forgery?” the
superintendent asked, as Harold ended.

“ Certainly not,” Harold answered. “ I
have not committed forgery. But l do not
wish to skulk or hide myself. I understand
a warrant is but against me in London. 1
have come to Scotland, hurriedly, for the
sake of getting married, not to escape appre¬
hension. I am here, openly, under my own
name. I tell you the facts; ’tis for you to
decide : if you choose, you can arrest me.”

The superintendent conferred for some
time in another room with the sheriff. Then
he returned to the study. “ Very well, sir,”
he said, in a respectful tone, “ I arrest you.”

So that was the beginning of our married
life. More than ever,

I felt sure I could
trust in Harold.

The police decided,
after hearing by tele¬
gram from London,
that we must go up
at once by the night
express, which they
stopped for the pur¬
pose. They were
forced to divide us.

I took the sleeping
car; Harold travelled

with two constables in an ordinary carriage.
Strange to say, notwithstanding all this, so
great was our relief from the tension of our
flight, that we both slept soundly.

Next morning we arrived in London,
Harold guarded. The police had arranged
that the case should come up at Bow Street
that afternoon. It was not an ideal honey¬
moon, and yet, I was somehow happy.

At Euston, they took him away from me.
And still, I hardly cried. All the way up in
the train, whenever I was awake, an idea had
been haunting me—a possible clue to this
trickery of Lord South minster’s. Petty
details cropped up and fell into their places.
I began to unravel it all now. I had an
inkling of a plan to set Harold right again.

The will we had proved-but I must not

anticipate.

When we parted, Harold kissed me on the
forehead, and murmured rather sadly, “ Now
I suppose it’s all up. Lois, I must go.
These rogues have been too much for us.”

“ Not a bit of it,” I answered, new hope
growing stronger and
stronger within me.
“ I see a way out.
I have found a clue.
I believe, dear
Harold, the right
will still be vindi¬
cated.”

And red-eyed as
I was, I jumped into
a hansom, and called
to the cabman to
drive at once to Lady
Georgina’s.

il I HAVE FOUND A CUUE,”

Unique Log-Marks.

By Alfred I. Burkholder.

OGS belonging to various in¬
dividuals and firms in the
lumber industry of the
North-Western United
States are identified and
separated in a striking

.i fashion. To illustrate

this it will be neces-
i sary to outline briefly
the routine of work
connected with the great lumbering industry
of the regions mentioned. Logging camps
are established in the heart of a forest.
Where no railroads have been extended to
the vicinity of the camps, roads are cut to the
nearest river, which is the highway by which
the logs are taken in the spring to saw-mills,
where they are manufactured into shingles,
lath, boards, timbers, and planks. Therefore,
proximity to a river is necessarily taken into
consideration when a camp is located.

After the trees are sawed down by men
engaged especially for this duty, they are
sawed into log lengths and
hauled, perhaps several
miles, to the bank of the
river. Some of the camps
contain as many as 300 or
400 men, and this force is
kept busy during the entire
winter cutting down trees,
sawing them into logs, and
hauling them to the river. Here they are
placed in huge piles, and it is at this time
that the log-mark of the owner is placed upon
them by an individual known as the “ scaler,”
whose duty it also is to measure the diameter
of each log and keep a record of it.

In this article we show a few of these
curious log-marks—odd artistic inventions of
the untrained minds of the lumber-camps.
There is no attempt at uniformity in ideas.
Anything that has the least bit of distinc¬
tiveness about it is sufficient for the
purpose, which explains the presence of
pound-marks, tea-pots, frogs, babies, yokes,
division signs, and wheel - barrows in the
illustrations for this article.

The instrument with which
the “scaler” places the mark
upon a log is in the shape of a
sledge-hammer, the back of the
hammer portion having upon
it a device similar to the log-
mark of the man by whom
he is employed and to whom
the logs belong. The log- E

mark itself is raised to a height of about
ij^in. or 21’n. above the surrounding surface
of steel, and when the sawed end of a log is
struck with it, the mark of the owner is
punched into the end of the log to a depth
which prevents its obliteration, unless the
whole end of the log is sawed off and
removed. Crude designs, differing from
the regular log-mark, are sometimes cut
into the bark of the log to assist in
more readily identifying the owner. Copies
of log-marks and cattle-brands are, as pro¬
vided by law, placed on a file in the office of
the county recorder of deeds in the county
in which the cattle owner or lumberman
operates.

For greater convenience the ice in the river
is thickly covered with the logs as spring
approaches. When the break-up of ice in
the river occurs, and the stream is swollen by
the melting of snow and the early spring
rains, what is called the log “drive” com¬
mences. In some portions of the lumbering
regions the disappearance of
the forests has left the saw¬
mills further and further
from the product without
which they cannot operate,
and the logs have to be
floated great distances.
Thus, a “drive” of 100 or
200 miles is nothing un¬
usual, and on the Mississippi river logs are
frequently taken as much as 300 miles.

On one river perhaps a dozen or more
lumbering firms, having no connection with
each other, are operating, and when spring
comes all their logs are rolled into the
stream, to soon become so mixed up that
the novice naturally becomes of the opinion
that their separation is an impossibility. The
work during a log “ drive ” is the hardest
and most dangerous connected with the
lumbering industry.

The men are required to be up long before
daylight, so that they may eat their break¬
fasts and walk to the river, perhaps several
miles distant, arriving there at
daylight to begin the work of
the day. Refreshments are
taken to them twice during
the day, at about ten o’clock
in the forenoon, and again at
two o’clock in the afternoon.
They work until it becomes
dark, when they walk back
to their camps to procure their

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

suppers and much - needed rest. The log
drivers are required to keep the logs floating
in the streams. In rainy or cold weather,
such as is frequently experienced in the
lumbering regions, their work is very arduous
and debilitating. It is of the utmost im¬
portance that the work of float¬
ing the logs out be pushed
while there is sufficient water
in the streams, many of which
become nothing more than
creeks later in the season, when
dry weather sets in.

The force of the current be¬
hind the huge mass of logs may
force hundreds of logs to a
lodgment on the bank when
curves in the stream are reached,
and then the men are compelled to work,
perhaps waist deep, in the water in order to
clear the stranded logs and once more
get them afloat. The foremost logs are
especially looked after and kept on the

move, for should they become lodged the

obstruction thus formed would speedily
cause a log “ jam,” the thing particularly to
be dreaded by the
drivers.

Notwithstanding
the extreme care and
precautions, jams
occasionally occur.
Then the logs are

piled high in the

air, the weight of
the mass sinking the
logs to the bottom of the river, and extend¬
ing from bank to bank of the stream, form¬
ing an almost solid wedge, which constantly
becomes larger and 'more compact. It is
nothing unusual for the logs to be piled to
a height of rooft. or 150ft., and extending
for several miles up the river.

A jam in the St. Croix river, in Wisconsin
and Minnesota, in the spring
of 1892, was about six miles
in length. Another one that
formed in the Chippewa
river, in the former State, in
1886, extended ten miles.

This river was also the scene,
twenty years ago, of perhaps
the greatest log jam in
history. It extended for a distance of
twenty - five miles, and was estimated to
contain over 150,000,000ft. of lumber.

It sometimes requires several days’ hard
labour to “ break ” a jam. Not infrequently
a single log may be the cause of the whole

OUT

difficulty, and the removal of this “ key ” log
is naturally a dangerous duty. It may be
lodged so tightly by the great mass of logs
wedged against it by the swift current of the
river, that its removal is accomplished only
after chopping it in two with an axe. The man
who does this takes his life in
his hands, for the removal of
the “ key ” log almost instantly
releases the towering mass of
logs behind it. and the greatest
agility is required by the daring
man to reach a place of safety
ere the released mass goes
churning onward, forced to
almost lightning speed by the
irresistible power behind it.

The log drivers wear heavy
boots, from the soles of which project
sharpened steel or iron spikes, placed
thickly. With these, it in time becomes
an easy matter for the men to run about
on the floating and twisting logs with as
much confidence as that exhibited by the
dweller in a city when
striding along a pave¬
ment. Accidents, how¬
ever, occasionally hap¬
pen, and some of the
men are precipitated
into the water. AVhere
an experienced hand
loses his balance and
falls into the water he
i m m e diately becomes
an object of ridicule,
and is severely ban¬
tered by his comrades. The involuntary bath
of a new hand is taken as a matter of course,
and occasions no particular comment.

The men become surprisingly expert at
log “ riding,” as it is termed. A remark¬
able instance of this expertness was
witnessed by a writer while visiting the
lumber region on the Ottawa
and tributary rivers, in
Canada. He was sitting in
his tent one evening on the
west, bank of the River des
Quinze, near the head of
Lake Temiscamingue, when
he heard a young French¬
man on the opposite side of
the stream call for a boat to come over
and take him across. At the time, a great
many logs were floating down the river, the
current carrying them close to the shore a
short distance above the point where the
young Frenchman stood, and then sweeping

UNIQUE LOG-MARKS.

them diagonally across
the stream close to the
shore nearly in front of
the tent of the observer.

No boat answering
his hail, the Frenchman
walked up the shore
to where the logs were
pressing it most closely, and, watching
his opportunity, jumped upon one. With
his hands in his pockets he unconcernedly
waited for his improvised ferry to take him
to the opposite shore. In midstream the logs
were carried through a rapid. Here the log
upon which the young man was standing
began to revolve rapidly in the swift current,
but he speedily checked the dangerous move¬
ment by forcing it to revolve in the opposite
direction.

During the strange journey across the
river, which at that point was fully 200yds.
wide, he never for a moment lost his balance,
and all the time was whistling cheerily,
apparently wholly oblivious of the danger.
When the log upon which he stood was
swept across the river and
close to the opposite shore,
he calmly leaped to the bank.

He could not swim, which,
strange to relate, is the case
with fully one-half of the
men engaged in the danger¬
ous work of log driving.

I am told by a gentleman familiar with the
scenes and incidents connected with log
driving, that he has frequently seen the
drivers cross rivers which were comparatively
free of logs, by standing upon a log and
with their feet making it revolve quite swiftly,
and thus gradually propelling it across th£
stream. Perhaps it was by observing this
operation that the inventor conceived the
idea of a roller boat, with which experiments
have been made on the Atlantic.

When the logs have reached their destina¬
tion the utility of the log-marks is apparent.
When the great mass of logs have been
floated to the vicinity of the saw-mills which
will manufacture them into lumber, they are
brought to a standstill, and preparations are
made to separate the
logs belonging to dif¬
ferent owners. Long
“ booms ” are con¬
structed up and down
the river a short

distance below the head
of the drive of logs.

Logs placed end to
end, and securely
fastened together, form
the “ booms.” The
upper end is chained
to piers or other im¬
movable objects, which are stout enough to
hold the string of logs forming the booms.
A river is divided off into a sufficient number
of “ booms ” to provide a separate boom for
each firm or individual having logs in the
“drive.” A strong rope is then stretched
across the river a short distance above the
ends of the booms. This swings only a few
feet above the river, and is for the con¬
venience of the men who separate the logs
and float them into the proper boom.

The space between the shore and the
first boom is exclusively for logs belonging
to a certain firm or individual; the space
between the first and second booms for
those of another, and so on. As the logs
are floated down from the stationary “drive”
above, which, perhaps, fills
the river from bank to bank,
and extends up the stream
as far as the eye can reach,
the men whose duty it is ^o
separate the logs catch them
as fast as they are floated
down to them, hastily glance
at* the log-mark, mount the log, and, with
the aid of the rope stretched from bank to
bank, pull themselves and the log to a point
directly above the boom of the owner of the
log, and then release it, and permit it to be
carried by the current into the proper boom.

With the aid of pike-poles and other appli¬
ances, each man can take care of a number
of logs at one time, thus simplifying and
expediting the work of separating the logs.
As many men as can work without being in
each other’s way are stationed immediately
above the booms, and separate the logs with
astonishing accuracy and rapidity.

The log-marks, as- in the case of cattle-
brands, reduce the theft of logs to the
minimum, as the tell-tale mark, if overlooked
and not removed, is
a silent though con¬
vincing witness against
anyone who steals it
and in whose posses¬
sion it is found.

By M. Dinorben Griffith and Madame Camille Flammarion.

NCE or twice one has come
across a story of some adven¬
turous couple (usually in
America) who have been
married in a captive balloon.
The incident is reproduced
from time to time, the newspapers printing
it almost always placing on some other news¬
paper the responsibility of the statement.
The story may originally have taken its birth
in a diseased craving of some undistinguished
couple for notoriety, or, as is more likely, in
a lack of striking headlines for some very
enterprising American paper. But in any
case, we are concerned here with no such
matter, but with an actual wedding trip,
undertaken and carried through by a very
distinguished couple, in a perfectly free
balloon; and this with no idea of notoriety¬
hunting.

The name of M. Camille Flammarion, the
distinguished French astronomer, is very
nearly as familiar in this country as in
France, and some of his most important
works are made popular by means of trans¬
lations. He is distinguished by an imagina¬
tion very rare in men of science, and his
theories of the inhabitation of the stars are of
a very striking and beautiful character ; while
many other of his astronomical speculations
are similarly bold and original.

M. Flammarion’s interest in ballooning
began more than thirty years ago, and since
that time he has been a most enthusiastic
aeronaut; making very numerous ascents and
recording large numbers of extremely im¬
portant scientific observations. His book,
“Voyages en Ballon,” contains many inter¬
esting accounts of his ascents, and has been
translated by Mr. James Glaisher, the English
meteorologist and aeronaut. It is of the
wedding trip performed in a balloon by
Monsieur and Madame Flammarion that we
are to speak.

Madame Flammarion is herself a most
enthusiastic balloon-traveller. Indeed, she
has often said that nothing but the practical
impossibility of the feat prevents her living
altogether in a balloon. And she takes much
delight in recounting the story of her wedding
trip, which was her first balloon ascent, and
of a humorous incident which characterized it.
We shall give Madame Flammarion’s account
as nearly as her own words can be rendered
in English. The story was told us in the
beautiful garden of the Chateau Juvisy, the
magnificent house which is now M. Flam¬
marion’s home and observatory, but which
has been the resting-place of French Kings
in their journeys between Paris and Fontaine¬
bleau, from Henri Quatre to Louis Philippe.
Parenthetically we may say that Madame
Flammarion is herself a distinguished person,
and Vice-President of the League of Ladies
on behalf of International Disarmament.
This is her story as she tells it:—

I had always wished to make a balloon
ascent. The stories and descriptions I had
read had touched my enthusiasm, and already,
before I had entered a balloon, I was, at
heart, an enthusiastic aeronaut. To hang in
space above, looking down upon the rolling
world below, and all the little people in it,
was for years the height of all my ambitions.
Nevertheless, I never expected to make an
ascent in circumstances so novel and charm¬
ing as those which actually accompanied my
first balloon experience.

Just before our marriage, in discussing with
my future husband the form which our
wedding journey should take, I begged him
to choose the most magnificent and poetical
route possible—an ideal route, never before
made use of in the like circumstances.
M. Flammarion understood my meaning
at once. Indeed, the same* thought had
occurred to himself, though I first gave it
expression.

A WEDDING TOUR IN A BALLOON.

From this moment Flammarion was busily
engaged with the aeronaut, M. Jules Godard,
in making preparations for the aerial journey.
But preparations for the wedding itself also
claimed attention, and it was in some part in
consequence of Flam-
marion’s desires in this
matter that an odd incident
made memorable the first
part of our journey.

First we were married in
legal form — in a manner
corresponding to marriage
before a registrar in Eng¬
land. Flammarion wished
this to be the only ceremony,
and desired no Church rite;
in this being consistent with
his great astronomical philo¬
sophy, which I expect to be
the religion of the future.

But in the end he waived
his determination, to please
our mothers—and, I must
confess, to please me also.

But he made the condition
that there should be no con¬
fession, such as is usually
made part of the Roman
Catholic ceremony. The
good Abbe P-, who was to officiate, ex¬

pended all his eloquence to shake Flam-
marion’s determination in this respect, but his
eloquence and his pains went
for nothing. It was useless
to insist, Flammarion assured
him, and he found it so.

“ But, my dear friend,”
pleaded the excellent Abbe,

“ if not a confession, then at
least something: merely a
conversation.”

“ No ! Never ! Not even
that ! ” was Flammarion’s
final answer.

“ Then,” persisted the
Abbe, “ you will at any rate
grant me one personal
favour—nothing connected
with the ceremony. Say,
now, will you grant me that
favour ? ”

“Most certainly,” Flam¬
marion replied, rather in¬
cautiously. “ Granted
before asked. What is it ? ”

“That I may ascend with you in the
balloon.”

“ Abbe—you are a shrewd man. It shall

be as you wish, of course. In fact, the
balloon will carry four, and as we ourselves,
with the aeronaut, M. Godard, make only
three, there is a vacancy. You shall fill it,
Monsieur l’Abbe—it is promised.”

Unfortunately, the out¬
come of this promise was
very deep offence to a very
worthy man—so deep, that
the Abbe was almost
estranged from my husband,
as you shall hear.

Every detail of the events
of our wedding-day is as
clearly defined in my memory
as if it were but a recollec¬
tion of yesterday. It was a
brilliant day, and all the
town seemed as gay and as
happy as we. Still, there
was one little matter of
regret — our balloon trip
must be postponed for a
little while, for M. Jules
Godard had had an apo¬
plectic fit three days before,
and was not yet recovered.
This the Abbe did not know.

The service, which was
short, had finished, and we
were in our carriage—indeed, Flammarion
was in the act of closing the door—when a
vigorous hand seized the bridegroom’s and a
joyous voice cried, “ And I
also ? ”

It was the Abbe. In the
confusion of our happiness
we had quite forgotten that
he was to accompany us to
the breakfast—to which, as
a matter of fact, he had been
the first person invited.

The Abbe entered the
carriage with no more cere¬
mony, installed himself com¬
fortably, and carefully
deposited a travelling bag
on the seat before him.

“ Hey ! hey ! ” quoth the
Abbe, laughing merrily and
rubbing his hands together.
“ Here we are, my friends !
Well ! We set out this
evening in our balloon,
don’t we ? Eh ? I have
prepared —O yes, I have
prepared ! I shall send messages to all my
friends. I have filled this bag with little
papers, on each of which 1 have written;

M. FLAMMARION (AT THE TIME OF THE
WEDDING).

From a Photo, by Alexander Martin , Pans.

MADAME FLAMMARION (AT THE TIME OF
THE WEDDING).

From a Photo, by Dagron, Paris.

6 4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE,

‘From the altitude of the heavens I salute

you. Abbe P-These we will throw out

from the balloon ! ”

“ But, my clear Abbe,” said Flammarion,
a little taken aback; “ we haven’t told you.
We’re not going now ! ”

The Abbe grew almost livid. “ Come ! ”
he stammered. “ What—what’s this ? Is it
a joke ? Anyhow, it isn’t a good one! ”

“ I assure you, my dear Abbe, it is no
joke, but the simple truth. We can't go, for
Godard the aeronaut is ill. Three days ago
he had an apoplectic fit—indeed, he very
nearly died. What should we have done if
the fit had occurred in the balloon ? He is
better now, but not well enough to make
the ascent.”

The poor Abbe was thunderstruck. “And
I was so counting on the journey ! ” he said.
“ I’ve been telling everybody I know ! People
have even been sending me provisions for
the voyage. Truly, I don’t know where we
should have put them; but that’s beside the
question — they came. And now we are
not to go ! I shall be the laughing-stock
of all my acquaintance! It’s too bad—too
bad ! ”

All through the breakfast the Abbe re¬
mained melancholy, notwithstanding the
merry occasion, and the fact that Madame
Godard, who was present, assured him that
her husband was quite unable to make an
ascent in his weakly condition. Till at last,
in parting from him, Flammarion cheered
him by the assurance that he should go up in
a balloon after all, for, in fact, the project was
only deferred. And so the Abbe departed
hopefully. But who can count on the
future ? Fate disposed things differently, and

poor Abbe P-’s misfortune endured to the

end of the matter.

At last the time arrived, a week after the
wedding-day. On the eve of the day fixed
for the ascent my brother-in-law—Ernest
Flammarion, the publisher—came to see us.
He also wished to ascend with us; was most
eager, in fact. It must be remembered that,
at the time I speak of, balloon ascents were
much less common than they have since
become, and one had very few opportunities
of an experience in the air. In the end, my
husband promised his brother that he should
come, if only the Abbe should be prevented,
or should from any cause forego his claim.
Ernest quite understood the situation, and
waited with much anxiety, but with little
hope. “ It’s not of mjjch use,” he said.
“The Abbe won’t give up his place. I’m
afraid the thing’s settled ! ”

The few hours intervening before the time
fixed for the start were hours of anxious
watching. The weather was perfect, but we
were constantly on thorns lest some change
shpuld manifest itself.

But what of the Abbe? When the start
was determined upon—on the morning of
the day when Ernest Flammarion called on
us—my husband hurried out to inform the
Abbe, but found that he was away from
home, at La Varenne Saint-Hilaire, which he
always made his summer residence. Still,
the Abbe’s servant assured Flammarion that
he would be back, doubtless in the evening.
So a note was written and left on the Abbe’s
desk, thus :—

“ We set out to-morrow at close of day
in a balloon; do not miss this celestial
appointment, but meet us at about five
o’clock at the gas-works of La Villette.—
Flammarion.”

The eventful day (it was the 28th of
August, 1874) dawned brilliantly, and the
day fulfilled the promise of the dawn—a
delightfully equable temperature, a gentle
breeze, and a bright sky. And at five we
assembled at the gas-works—our aeronaut
and his wife, my brother-in-law, Ernest
Flammarion, and ourselves, with a number
of friends to see us off.

It is necessary to allow plenty of time for
preparations in view of a balloon ascent,
because of the innumerable details to be
attended to, any one of which may delay the
start for an unexpected length of time. One
may allow an hour as ample, and then, at
the end of three hours, find the balloon
still unready. No such delay occurred in
this case, though Godard and his assistants
were hard at work for some time, while we
talked with our friends.

The balloon, which rolled and swung
before us, had been specially made for us,
and it was of 2,000 metres cubic capacity.
Its material was the best China silk, and it
had a magnificent dark golden tint, most
beautiful as it rose, semi-transparent in the
sunshine.

In vain we awaited the Abbe. We
wondered whether anything could have pre¬
vented his receiving the note, or whether he
might be ill. It would soon be impossible
to wait longer. The balloon trembled, and
the great globe rose, little by little, from the
ground. Soon it was a truly beautiful object,
immense in its rotundity and majestic as it
rose above us, vibrating with the powerful
breath that soon was to lift us up into the
unknown.

A WEDDING TOUR IN A BALLOON

Everything was prepared, and still there
was no sign of Abbe P-.

“ Plainly the Abbe is not coming,” said
Godard. “ We can wait no longer. We
must start at once if we are to see Paris at
sunset! ”

. “ Then we will go,” said my husband.
And scarce had he turned to speak to his
brother when the latter was in the car beside
the aeronaut. Indeed, he scarce seemed
certain of his good fortune till he was well
in the air.

Now it was my turn. The car was a little
way from the ground, so my husband carried
me. I was trembling with excitement and
impatience. In
another minute,
when all four were
in their places,

Godard cried, “ Let
go, all! ” and our
friends about the
car fell back
quickly.

For me, I con¬
fess, it was a serious
moment. I could
not resist specu¬
lations as to where
we were going, into
what tempestuous
whirlwind we might
be carried, what
lightning - cloud
might rend and
burn our balloon,
now so gallant and
so beautiful.

We rose, at first,
softly and slowly.

For a long time
we could hear the
voices below us,

“ Au revoii* ! A
good voyage and a
quick return! ” But
with our release from the earth we were no
longer the same : we seemed to leave all
earthly interests behind us. Our bodily
weight we seemed to lose, and our brains
also grew buoyant. We were held entirely
by admiration of the wonders about us.

Nothing so magnificent had I ever
imagined. The charming landscapes of the
earth were small things indeed in comparison
with the colossal, the marvellous prospect
that was before our eyes. When at last we
found our voices our exclamations seemed
ridiculously inadequate to the occasion.

Vol. xvii.—9.

“ Heavens ! How beautiful it is, how
beautiful! ” But we could not find adequate
words for it.

My husband said, “The earth descends
below us.” And the words well expressed
the sensation conveyed. The earth seemed
to sink away from us in a wonderful, indeed,
in a terrible, manner. Everything was
wonderful and weird. Indeed, the whole
of such a journey seems a strange and fan¬
tastic dream, luxurious to the senses and
impressively superb. Its beauty cannot be
told, cannot be written. It must be seen and
felt.

The sun was sinking in the west. For a
while the daylight
seemed even more
intense as it was
about to vanish.
Then the sun dis¬
appeared ; it had
set. But we rose
and rose, and pre¬
sently we saw the
red wonder again.
In.simple fact, here
was the sun rising
again for us alone,
and in the west!
But the sight
lasted a very
short time,
and once
more the
v great lumin¬
ary sank from
sight. We
had seen the
sun set twice
in one even-
ing!

My delight
was inexpres¬
sible ; to sit
here beside
my newly-
made husband - here in the sky, travelling I
knew not where. Our movement was alto¬
gether imperceptible—we would seem to be
entirely still; there was no such current of
air even as would cause a quiver in the flame
of a candle. At this time our height was
about 300 or 400 metres, and we gazed over
the edge of the car at the towns, the railway
lines, the fields, and the woods—all Liliputian
toys, and things to smile at.

We passed over the Buttes-Chaumont, at
Vincennes. I turned my head to ask a ques¬
tion of Godard, and was terrified to perceive

“ AU REVOIR ! ”

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

that he had in his mouth a large pipe ! I
touched my husband’s arm, and pointed. He
looked, and with a cry he instantly snatched
the pipe away. “ Do you want to blow us
all up ? ” he exclaimed.

But Godard merely laughed,
he cried, “ you don’t perceive,
light to it ! It is
a mere habit. I
can’t do without
my pipe, and I
keep it in my
mouth and imagine
I am smoking.

Come, let me have
it! ”

The incident
amused us much,
and for almost the
whole of the re¬
mainder of the
journey the pipe
remained between
Godard’s lips, while
he, to all appear¬
ance, smoked
with perfect
satisfaction.

And now we
came by the
mouth of the
Marne. Sud¬
denly there was
a burst of laugh¬
ter among us ;
it came from my
husband. At first he could not answer our
questions ; then he pointed below, to a place
where we could perceive something moving.
“ Listen ! ” he said.

We listened eagerly, and heard cries of
despair in the quiet evening air, far below.
“ Flammarion ! Flammarion ! He ! Flam-
marion ! Come down ! Come down here ! ”

There was great excitement in the little
place below. From the garden of a little
house several persons were making signs to
us.

“ This is the place,” exclaimed Flammarion;
“ this is the place, clearly. There is a fatality
in this! My friends, we are exactly and
perpendicularly above the estate of the Abbe

P-, at La Varenne Saint-Hilaire! Do

you hear ? He calls us ! ”

And indeed it was the fact, the simple fact.
What cruel tricks chance will play !

“ Come down ! Come down, Flammarion!”
And then the voices of those below died
away, for we had gone from their sight. It

is probable that if we had attempted to
descend just there we should all have expe¬
rienced a good bath in the Marne—a dan¬
gerous river in these parts.

Godard threw out ballast, and we rose
higher still. “ What will the Abbe think ? ”
I said. “ He will never pardon us for this
heart-breaking dis¬
appointment ! ”
And, indeed, to
finish with the poor
Abbe, I may say
here that he would
never believe the
truth of what had
happened, nor
under what condi¬
tions Ernest Flam¬
marion had been
allowed to take his
place. He main¬
tained that we
had arranged the
whole thing be¬
forehand ; and
for more than a
year we saw nothing
of him, notwith¬
standing our
friendly attentions
and most cordial
appeals.

Now the moon
shone with such
intensity that the
country stood as
clearly defined as in full daylight, and the time
was half-past nine. Here we were at the
height of 1,900 metres, and we seemed to be
entering into another world. Here all Nature
was in dead silence, superb and terrible; we
were in the clouds. My husband has
described the scene better than I am able.
We were in the starry skies, having at our
feet clouds that seemed vast mountains
of snow — an impressive, unearthly land¬
scape—white alps, glaciers, valleys, ridges,
precipices. An unknown Nature revealed
herself, creating, as in a dream, the most
dazzling and fantastic panoramas. Stupend¬
ous combats between the clouds arose and
rolled ; the air-currents followed one another,
hurled and flung themselves in mighty com¬
motion, shaking and breaking, in dead
silence, the monstrous masses. We felt, we
sa\y in action, the powerful, incessant, pro¬
digious forces of the atmosphere, while the
earth slept below.

It was a scene beyond all words. Presently

‘ Ha ! ha ! ”
'There is no

“‘DO YOU WANT TO BLOW US ALI. UP?’ HE EXCLAIMED.”

A IVEDDING TOUR IN A BALLOON

a monstrous elephant formed itself before
our eyes. We entered into the very midst ot
it, and were blinded by the cold and damp
vapour—a singular and awful cloud, whence
we emerged but to plunge again into others
more awful still; now a furious sea, now a
group of hideous phantoms, now long,
luminous tracts, glittering like streams of
silver in the ghostly white light. “ This is
not so pleasant,” my brother-in-law mur¬
mured. “ Why not descend ? ”

The billows of
cloud piled to¬
gether, terribly
agitated. Above
us, below us and
about us, all was
stirred to fury.

My agitation was
great; for of all
these circum¬
stances the
silence, the abso¬
lute silence, was
the most terrible.

Amid all the
shocks of the
cloud - masses,
amid all the rages
of the hideous
gigantic phan¬
toms, of those
fearful forces
that might at any
moment crush
us in a clap of
thunder, not a
sound, even of
the faintest, was
heard. T he
balloon glided
through the ener¬
vating, cloud-
filled heavens
steadily and
proudly, and
soon we were
free of the mists, and sailing serenely under
the deep blue sky, in the pale light of the
moon.

“ I like this better,” said Ernest, and we
agreed with him.

We gazed at the white plain of rolling
clouds below us. What was that—the little
ball that ran so quickly along the furrowed
whitespaces? The little ball edged with an
aureole of tender colours ?

“ That ? ” answered Godard. “ That is
we ourselves — the balloon, or rather its

shadow. What do you think of its rate of
travelling, Madame Flammarion—you who
imagine that we are not moving at all ? ”

Truly, it was our own shadow, swiftly
skimming the clouds below, a curious and
charming sight.

i\nd now we saw the first signs of dawn.
The balloon sank and sank, and soon we
were skimming above meadows scented with
a thousand perfumes. To us it seemed that
we must touch the trees every moment, so

nearly did we
approach the
earth. But, as a
matter of fact, we
were still a hun¬
dred metres from
the ground.
Again it was a
delightful experi¬
ence, thus to
skim above the
earth in the
silent, starry
morning, without
a breath of air
that we could
feel. The plains,
the hills, the rivu¬
lets passed before
us as in a dream.
It was commu¬
nion with Nature
indeed.

“Now,” said
Godard, sud¬
denly, “ we are
ascending, and
quickly.” And,
indeed, as he
spoke we shot
upwards, and in
a moment were
again among the
clouds. In the
distance we ob¬
served a peculiar
light. Was it a lighthouse ? No, we were
far from the sea. Reassured on this point,
we are soon uneasy in regard to another, for
presently we saw that lightning-flashes were
traversing the clouds. “ It is a storm,”
Godard observed, “and it will be a bad one.”

“ Then we will throw out ballast and avoid
it,” said my husband.

It was done, and instantly we ascended to
the height of 3,000 metres. Now we saw that
the deep blue of the sky was paling, and day
broke. Far above us Sirius glittered, and in

“a singular and awful cloud.”

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

a few moments more our
altitude was 4,000 metres,
the highest of the trip.

At this height I breathed
less freely ; and everything
liquid in the car—even
the wine — was frozen.

We shivered under our
furs, and there was a
humming in my ears. In
spite of these drawbacks
I was as enthusiastic as
ever, and I assured my
husband, who expressed
some solicitude for me,
that I had never been
better, and that I would
be very glad to live in a
balloon ! And as for
descending, who could
think of it, with such a
spectacle before us?

Behind us was the moon
and the darkness; below, afar, a storm of
lightning and thunder; and before us, most
wonderful of all, the rising of the sun, filling
the empyrean with his rays and flinging a
mantle of purple and gold over all, clouds
and balloon alike. The mysterious and weird
beauties of the night gave place to the brilliant
metamorphosis of
day.

And now, alas ! we
returned to earth. In
twenty minutes, after
a swift though tran¬
quil descent from
the height of 4,000
metres, we were again
among our fellow-
mortals, in the neigh¬
bourhood of Spa.

Our trip had lasted
nearly thirteen hours.

The population of
the district had never
seen a balloon so
near, and our arrival
roused the country¬
side. The people
came running from
every direction, yell¬
ing and gesticulating,
and scarcely had the
car touched earth
when it was sur¬
rounded so closely by
a crowd of peasants
that it was impossible

for Godard to make proper
arrangements for landing.
By dint of frightful gri¬
maces and abuse, he in¬
duced them to draw back
sufficiently to enable him
to make fast, and then
my companions were
obliged to protect me :
for the women, and even
some of the men, came to
touch me — my hair, my
hands, my face, and my
clothes — to make sure
that I was really alive !

Ernest Flammarion
alighted first. “ I am very
happy,” he said, “ to have
been up in a balloon, but
I don’t think I shall go
again.”

As for my husband,
his persistent passion for
ballooning is well known ; and as for myself,
I have made two more aerial voyages with
him, and I would be glad to make a thousand.

One gets, of course, very little of common
luxuries in a balloon. There is just a car of
basket-work, and a wooden plank for a seat.
The knees must serve for a table, and the head
rests on the edge of
the car when one sits
and rests. The bench
will hold only two at
a time, and even the
two find it a tight fit.
Of course, it is im¬
possible to cook in a
balloon, for anything
in the nature of fire
would produce an
instant blow-up, and
a scattering of the
whole expedition to
the four winds. The
food one takes con¬
sists of cold meat,
bread, fruit, eggs, and
perhaps salad pre¬
pared beforehand. M.
Flammarion carried
his instruments as
usual — his barome¬
ters, telescopes, ther¬
mometers, and the
rest—on his wedding
trip, and made scien¬
tific observations and
notes from first to last.

M. FLAMMARION (PRESENT DAY).
From a Photo, by Professor Stebbivg, Paris.

MADAME FLAMMARION (PRESENT DAY).
From a Photo, by Professor Stebbing, Paris.

A Peep into “ Punch!'

By J. Holt Schooling.

[ The Proprietors of “ Punch ” have given special permission to reproduce the accompanying illustrations. This
is the first occasion when a periodical has been C7iabled to present a selection from Air. Punch's famous pages. ]

Part I. — 1841 to 1849.

R. PUN CPI has, perhaps,
never given a better proof of
his ability to gauge the public
mind of this country than
that contained in the follow¬
ing lines, quoted from the
issue dated November 5, 1898 :—

tion, and Punch’s neat verses just quoted
give an excellently succinct and pithy ex¬
pression to the feeling of the average peace-
loving Briton, who has become quite weary
of being diplomatically played with by France
in our colonial affairs, and who was, and is,
quite ready to “ take off his coat.”

A WARNING WORD.

[From Mi". Punch's “ Vagrant."]

Dear Punch,—I am not one to bellow

Nor am I much on bloodshed bent;
I’m not a tearing Jingo fellow,

All fuss, and froth, and discontent.

{Here follow some verses relating
to political affairs , and then come
the lines printed belo7u. J. //. S.]

We have another, sterner matter—

The Frenchman posted on the Nile.

Not his to reason ? True ! I like
him,

His skill to act, his pluck to dare.
I’d sooner cheer him, far, than strike
him—

But why did others send him there?
In truth, they did not mean to please
us;

They must have realised with joy
That March and on the Nile must
tease us,

And sent him merely to annoy.

So be it then : we know what’s what
now,

And what the Frenchmen would be
at.

Though Major Marchand’s on the
spot now,

He’s got to pack and go—that’s flat.
We’re tired of gracefully conceding,

Tired, too, of jibe and jeer and
flout;

Our answer may show lack of breed¬
ing,

But there it is—a plain “ Get out.”

If one should, thinking I am weak,
Sir,

Smite me on one cheek black and
blue,

I’m told to turn the other cheek, Sir,

But not both cheeks and forehead
too.

Year in, year out, they’ve tried to
spite us,

We’ve borne it with a sorry grin ;
And now—well, if they want to fight
us,

Coats off, and let the fun begin !

Punch published these
lines just before Lord
Salisbury announced at
the Mansion House
dinner, given in honour
of Lord Kitchener on
November 4, that France
had come round to our
view of the Fashoda ques-

dir.. *--0 y

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AffflfPd 7 • y-T^

A jd't

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I.—THE FIRST PAGE OF THE ORIGINAL PROSPECTUS OF “ PUNCH,” IN THE
HANDWRITING OF MARK LEMON. 1841.

7°

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

The preceding illustration of Mr. Punch’s
terse and true expression of public opinion
is the most recent that can now be given, but

il THINGS MAY TAKE ANOTHER TURN.’'

2.—THE FIRST PICTURE IN “ PUNCH.” 1841.

as one looks through the pages of the 113
Volumes of Punch , which bring this famous
periodical to the end of the year 1897, one
notices many other
examples of Mr.

Punch’s acute discern¬
ment and pithy expres¬
sion of the public mind,
which have been step¬
ping-stones of fame to
him during his long
life of nearly sixty
years, quite apart from
the weekly dish of good
things offered by Mr.

Punch to his public.

Thanks to the kind¬
ness of Messrs. Brad¬
bury and Agnew, the
proprietors of Punch,

I am able to give to
the general public
some of the pleasure
that comes from the
possession of a com¬
plete set of Punch. In
reading one’s Punch
the pleasure is much
enhanced by Mr. M.

H. Spielmann’s most
admirable book, “The
History of Punch”

[ Cassell and Company,

Limited, 1895], f° r Mr.

Spiel man n is probably
the best living authority
on this subject, and his
researches, which ex¬
tended over four years,
enable the ordinary
Pimch - lover to find

many points of great interest [specially in
the early Volumes] which, without Mr. Spiel¬
mann’s book, might be passed over without
notice. Some of the Punch engravings now
shown have been found by the aid of Mr.
Spielmann’s book, which is a thoroughly
reliable and quite indispensable Text-Book
on Punch, while, on other points, I have
been privileged to consult Mr. W. Lawrence
Bradbury and Mr. Philip L. Agnew as well
as Mr. Spielmann himself.

When the Queen came to the throne there
was no Punch. He was conceived in cir¬
cumstances of much mystery, for many have
claimed the honour of his paternity. The his¬
torian of Punch has devoted a long chapter
to this matter of Punch's paternity, and has
judicially weighed the evidence for or against
each claimant. Mr. Spielmann writes

Yet although it was not .... Henry Mayhew
who was the actual initiator of Punch , it was unques-

CANDIDATES UNDER DIFFERENT RIIASES.

CANVASSING. TUX pEFt’TATION.

TUX SCCCXSJrCL CANDIDATE THE HUSTINGS. THE mtlC DIXNXft.

3.—THE FIRST OF MR. PUNCH’S CARTOONS. 1841.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.-N° IV.

4.—THE FIRST PICTURE IJY JOHN LEECH. 1841.

lionably lie to whom the whole credit belongs of
having developed Landells’ specific idea of a
“Charivari / 5 and of its conception in the form it
look. Though not the absolute author of its exist¬
ence. he was certainly the author of its literary and
artistic being, and to that degree, as he was wont to
claim, he was its founder.

Thus, the opinion of the best authority is
that Henry Mayhew and Ebenezer Landells
were the real founders of Punch.

Early in 1841, after several discussions
between the members of the first staff of
Punch , the original prospectus was drawn up
by Mark Lemon. The first page of this
three-page foolscap document is shown in
reduced facsimile in illustration No. 1 of this
article. An excellent facsimile, on the
original blue foolscap paper, is bound up in
a little anonymous pamphlet published in

the year 1870,
“ Mr. Punch: His
Origin and
Career ”; but Mr.
Bradbury told me
that many of the
statements about
Punch in this
pamphlet are erro¬
neous, although
the document is
an exact copy of
the original in
Mr. Bradbury’s
possession, which
happens just now
to be packed away
in a warehouse,
and so cannot be
photographed.

It is interesting
to see in No. 1
that the name
Punch was substi¬
tuted for the
struck - out title,

“ The Fun-

It has been sug¬
gested that the
title thus cut short
in favour of the
single word Punch
was to have been
“ The Funny Dogs

THE LEGEND OF JAWBRAIIIM-HERAUDEE.

HERE once lived a king in Ar¬
menia, whose name was Poof-
llee-Shaw; he was called by his
people, and the rest of the world
who happened to hear of him,
Zubbcrdust, or, the Poet, found¬
ing his greatest glory, like Bul-
wer - Khan, Moncktoon- Milncs-
Sahib, Rogers-Sam-Bahawder,
and other lords of the English
Court, not so much on his pos
sessions, his ancient race, or hi:
personal beauty (all which, ’tit
known, these Frank emirs pos¬
sess), as upon his talent for po¬
etry, which \yas in truth amazing.

He was not, like other so¬
vereigns, proud of his prowess
in arms, fond of invading hos¬

tile countries, or, at any rate, of reviewing his troops when no hostile
country was at hand, but loved Letters all his life long. It was
said, that, at fourteen, he had copied the Shah-Nameh ninety-nine times,
and, at the early age of twelve, could repeat the Koran backwards. Thus
lie gained the most prodigious power of memory ; and it is related of him,
that a Frank merchant once coming to his Court, with a poem by Buhver-
lvhan called the Siamee-Geminee (or, Twins of Siam), His Majesty, Poof-
Allee, without understanding a word of the language in which that in¬
comparable epic was written, nevertheless learned it off, and by the mere
force of memory, could repeat every single word of it.

Now, all great men have their weaknesses; and King Poof-Allee, T am
sorry to say, had his. He wished to pass for a poet, and not having a
spark of originality in his composition, nor able to string two verses to¬
gether, would, with the utmost gravity, repeat you a sonnet of Hafiz or
iSaadee, which the simpering courtiers applauded as if it were his own.

5.—THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE FIRST LITERARY CONTRI¬
BUTION BY THACKERAY, WHO ALSO DREW THIS INITIAL
SKETCH. 1842.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

THE LETTER OF INTRODUCTION.

6.—THE FIRST PICTURE OK THE QUEEN IN “ PUNCH.” 1841.

with Comic Tales,” and the prospectus ends
with the words, “ Funny dogs with comic
tales.” The price was written “ Twopence,”
although the price of Punch has always been
Threepence.

As regards the sudden change of title to
Punch — a change made, as we see from the
facsimile, while Mark Lemon was in the
very act of writing the title—Mr. Spielmann
has recorded that there are as many versions
as to the origin of Punch's name as of the
origin of the periodical itself.

Hodder declares that it was Mayhew’s sudden
inspiration. Last asserted that when “ somebody ” at
the Edinburgh Castle meeting spoke of the paper,
like a good mixture of punch, being nothing without
Lemon, Mayhew caught at the idea and cried, “A
capital idea ! We’ll call it Punch!”

There have been many other claimants to
the distinction of having thought of the title
“ Punch,” which is certainly an infinitely
better title than “ Funny Dogs with Comic
Tales ” and much better than “ The Funny
Dogs,” which I suggest may have been the
title Mark Lemon began to write, judging
from the place on the paper (see No. i),

where he began with the

words, “ The Fun-” ;

for if he had intended to
write the longer title, “ The
Funny Dogs with Comic
Tales,” he must have run
the last part of this long
title too far to the right of
his paper to be consistent
with the symmetrical posi¬
tion given to his other
headings, etc., on the sheet
of foolscap : a practised
writer unconsciously allows
enough space for the sym¬
metrical setting out of his
head-lines, etc., and that
Mark Lemon was a spe¬
cially practised writer is
very clearly shown by
inspection of this interest¬
ing facsimile.

The first number of
Punch came out on the
17th July, 1841, at 13,
Wellington Street, Strand.
There was a good demand
for it, two editions of five
thousand copies each being
sold in two days. This
demand was caused by ad¬
vertising in various ways, in¬
cluding the distribution of
100,000 copies of a printed
prospectus that was nearly identical with the
draft whose first page has been shown here.

THE PRINCE OF WALES.—HIS FUTURE TIMES.

A private letter from Hanover states that, precisely at twelve
minutes to eleven in the morning on the ninth of the present Novem¬
ber, his Majesty King Ernest was suddenly attacked by a violent
fit of blue devils. All the court doctors were immediately sum¬
moned, and as immediately dismissed, by his Majesty, who sent
for the Wizard of the North (recently appointed royal astrologer), to
divine the mysterious cause of this so sudden melancholy. In a trice
the mystery was solved—Queen Victoria “ was happily delivered of a
Prince!" His Majesty was immediately assisted to his chamber—
put to bed—the curtains drawn—all the royal household ordered to
wear list slippers—the one knocker to the palace was carefully tied up
—and (on the departure of our courier) half a load of straw was
already deposited beneath the window of the royal chamber. The
sentinels on duty were prohibited from even sneezing, under pain of
death, and all things in and about the palace, to use a bran new simile,
were silent as the grave!

“ Whilst there was only the Princess Royal there were many hopes.
There was hope from severe teething—hope from measles—hope from
hooping-cough—but with the addition of a Prince of Wales, the
hopes of Hanover are below par.” But we pause. We will no
further invade the sanctity of the sorrows of a king; merely observing,
that what makes his Majesty very savage, makes hundreds of thou¬
sands -of Englishmen mighty glad. There are now two cradles
between the Crown of England and the White Horse of Hanover.

We have a Prince of Wales ! Whilst, however, England is throw¬
ing up its million caps in rapture at the advent, let it not be forgotten
to whom we owe the royal baby. In the clamourousness of our joy
the fact would have escaped us, had we not received a letter from
Colonel Sibthorp, who assures us that we owe a Prince of Wales
entirely to the present cabinet; had the Whigs remained in office,
the infant would inevitably have been a girl. _

7.—THE FIRST MENTION OF THE FRINCE OF WALES. 1841.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

reproducing an
artist’s work to any
scale; the work had
to be cut on the
wood - block and
shown the same
size as the original
drawing. Hence,
in a weekly paper
such as Punch,-
there was often
not much time to
spend on the wood¬
engraving, and so
many of the draw¬
ings, especially the
early ones, are
wanting in finish.

From the first Volume of Punch I have Picture No. 4 is the first by famous John
chosen the five pictures here numbered 2, 3, Leech -Mr. Punch’s first great artist and

4, 6, and 7. No. 2 is the first picture in in addition to the signature “ John Leech”

Ptmch , a distinction that
gives importance to this
little sketch [the same size
as the original] of a broken-
down man at work on the
tread - mill. By the first
picture, I mean the first
that was printed on the
numbered pages of Punch
- this is on page 2 of
Vol. I.—for the Introduc¬
tion contained three wood-
cats, and there was the
outside wrapper—of which
I shall speak later. But
this little cut in No. 2 is
really the first of Mr.

Punch’s famous gallery of
black-and-white art. It
was drawn by William
Newman, and this is one
of his so-called “ blackies ”

—little silhouettes that were
paid for at the rate of
eighteen shillings per
dozen.

No. 3 is the first of
Mr. Punch’s long series
of cartoons. This was
done by A. S. Henning,
and it makes a much nicer
picture in its present re¬
duced size than in its
original large size, where
the work is too coarse in
texture. In the forties,
there were no ingenious
photographic processes for

Vel. Xvii.-1Q.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

THE tVlUSTLlr.G OYSTER,

as it appeared whilst esecutiug the charming air of—“Come to these
yellow sands.”

IO.—A FANCIFUL DISCOVERY BY “ l’UNCH.” 1S43.

at the bottom of the block, there is in the
middle of the design the curious sign-manual,
a leech in a bottle, which John Leech often
used to mark his work. This first design by
Leech was in the fourth number of Punch,
August 7, 1841,
and its title
“ Foreign Affairs ”
has reference to
the groups of
foreign refugees
who at that time
were specially
numerous in Soho
and Leicester
Square — places
that even nowa¬
days are charac¬
terized by the
presence of
numerous and not
too desirable
foreigners.

The facsimile in
No. 5 is from the
commencement of
Thackeray’s first
literary contri¬
bution to Punch,
and the sketch
which forms the
initial letter T is
also by Thackeray.

Mr. Spielmann
says this sketch is
“ undoubtedly ” by Thackeray ; the full con¬
tribution is on page 254 of Volume II.

The cartoon shown in No. 6 contains the
first picture of Queen Victoria in Punch, and
it represents Sir Robert Peel sent for by the
Queen to form an Administration in place
of the beaten Ministry of Lord Melbourne.
This was in the autumn of 1841. The words,
The Letter of Introduction, at the bottom of

the cartoon, are the title of “a MS. drama,
called the ‘ Court of Victoria,’ ” on page
90 of Volume I. of Punch, which com¬
mences :—

SCENE IN WINDSOR CASTLE.

[Her Majesty discovered sitting thoughtfully at an
escritoire. ]

Enter the Lord Chamberlain.

Lord Chamberlain : May it please your Majesty,
a letter from the Duke of Wellington.

The Queen [opens the letter ) : Oh ! a person for
the vacant place of Premier—show the bearer in, my
lord. [Exit Lord Chamberlain.']

The Queen [muses): Sir Robert Peel—I have
heard that name before, as connected with my family.
If I remember rightly he held the situation of adviser
to the Crown in the reign of Uncle William, and was
discharged for exacting a large discount on all the
State receipts ; yet Wellington is very much interested
in his favour. Etc., etc., etc.

In facsimile No. 7 we see the first
mention in Punch of the Prince of Wales.

It is the first part of a full-page article on
page 222 of Volume I., which records the
birth of the Prince on November 9, 1841,
and which also refers to the disappointment
caused to the King of Hanover by the birth
of the Queen’s second child. Punch writes :
u There are now two cradles between the
Crown, of England and the White Horse
of Hanover,” How many British Royal

A PEEP IE TO “PUNCH’

“cradles” are
there now be¬
tween the two
things named by
Punch ?

This comical
sketch in No. 8
was, I suspect,
suggested to Mr.

Punch by one of
the many offers
of unsolicited
“ outside ” con¬
tributions which
have always been
severely discour¬
aged. Mr. Punch
prefers to rely
upon his own
staff, although he
is always on the
alert for fresh
talent, and
amongst the
clever men who
have thus been
invited to contri¬
bute to Punch are
Mr. H. W. Lucy
(“Toby, M.P.”),

Mr. R. C. Leh¬
mann (who wrote
“ The Adven¬
tures of Picklock
Holes ”), Mr. Bernard Partridge (the brilliant
successor to Mr. du Maurier), and Mr. Phil
May.

We see in No. 9
the first Punch pic¬
ture of the Prince of
Wales. This cartoon
was drawn by Kenny
Meadows. The
Queen is standing at
the left of the infant
Prince, and points to
the first tooth, the
doctor blows a toy-
trumpet and offers
some soldiers, while
the lady who kneels
is offering a baby’s
coral with a Punch’s
head as its chief
attraction.

No. 10 is a very
clever sketch of “ The
Whistling Oyster.” A
full account of this

supposititious
discovery is given
on page 142-3
of Volume V. of
Punch , in the
year 1843, an d
this curiosity was
stated to be “ in
the possession of
Mr. Pearkes of
Vinegard Yard,
opposite the
gallery door of
Drury Lane
Theatre.”

The cartoon in
No. 11 is the first
by another of
Mr. Punch’s
great guns—the
famous Richard
Doyle. This ap¬
peared on March
16, 1844; and

“ The Modern
Sisyphus ” is Sir
Robert Peel,
then Premier,
seen in the task
of rolling up the
great stone
[Daniel O’Con¬
nell, the Irish
orator, who was
then agitating for the repeal of the union
between Ireland and Great Britain], while Lord
J ohn Russell and
others represent
“ The Furies ” who
are watching Peel’s
unavailing exertions.
The sign-manual at
the right of this car¬
toon — a dicky-bird
perched on a D—
was often used by
Richard Doyle, and
may be seen on the
present wrapper of
Punch. Although
No. 11 is the first
cartoon contributed
by Doyle, it is not
the first work he did
for Punch , for Doyle
commenced his asso¬
ciation with the paper
by drawing comic
borders for the

Master Wellington. You 'ro too good a judge to hit m
you are !

Master Joinville. Am I I
Master Wellington. Yes, you are.

Master Joinville. Oh, am I I

Master Wellington. Yes, you are.

Master Joinville. Ha I
Master Wellington. Ha !

[Moral.— And llitj / don't fiyhloftti all ,]

2 .—A SUPPOSITITIOUS CONVERSATION BETWEEN THE DUKE OF WELLING¬
TON AND THE PRINCE DE JOINVILLE (OF THE FRENCH NAVY). 1844.

ROYAL SPORT.

It will bo in the recollection of our readers that a handsome rod (which

liis Mamma’s gold fish, one of which was as big as a dace and weighed
six ounces. It was very nearly pulling the Prinoe in.

T3.—ANOTHER PICTURE OR THE PRINCE OF WALES. 1844,

7 6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

Christmas num¬
ber of 1842.

John Leech’s
cartoon, in No.

12, was pub¬
lished September
14, 1844 ; the

Prince de Join-
ville was in com-
mand of the
French Navy,
and there was
some foolish talk
in the French
papers about an
invasion of Eng¬
land. The ex¬
pression of the
Duke of Welling¬
ton’s face in this
cartoon is simply
perfect, as he stands with his hands in his
pockets calmly looking at the threatening

A RAILWAY MAP OF ENGLAND.

We are not among those who like going on with the March of
Intellect at the old jog-trot pace, for we rather prefer running on before
to loitering by the 6ide, and we have consequently taken a few strides in
advance with Geography, by furnishing a Map of England, As it will be
in another year or two. Our country will, of course, never be in chains,
for there would be such a general bubbling up of heart’s blood, and such
a bounding of British bosoms, as would effectually prevent that ; but
though England will never be in chains, she will pretty soon be in irons,
as a glance at the numerous new Railway prospectuses will testify. It is
boasted that the spread of Railways will shorten the time and labour of
travelling ; but wo shall soon be unable to go anywhere without
crossing the line.—which once used to be considered a very formidable
undertaking. We can only say that we ought to be going on very smoothly,
considering that our country is being regularly ironed from one end of it
to the other.

15.— AJ{?, PUNCH POKES FUN AT THE RAILWAY MANIA OF 1:845,

Joinville, and
quietly says to
the Frenchman,
“You’re too
good a judge to
hit me, you are!”
One is irresistibly
reminded by this
clever cartoon of
a quite recent
affair with our
French neigh¬
bour, in which
the relative posi¬
tions were not
unlike those here
shown, and to
which the climax
was [at any rate,
up to date, No¬
vember, 1898]
the same as in Leech’s cartoon — And
they don't fight after all!

No. 13 is
from page 157
of Volume
VII., October
5, 1844. it
represents the
Prince of
Wales, then
not quite three
years old,‘‘cap¬
turing several
of his Mam¬
ma’s gold fish,
one of which
was as big as
a dace, and
weighed six
ounces. It was
very nearly
pulling the
Prince in.”

In the “ In¬
nocence ” pic¬
ture, No. 14,
observe that
the little dog
Fido, which is
being sought
by the lady, is
just visible in
the left coat-

pocket of the 16.— AN EARl.Y PICTURE OF LORD
V) • 1 1 o-i HEACONSFIELD, AS BENJAMIN DISRAELI.

Bill - Sikes - ,845.

looking rough.

The Railway Map of England, No. 15, is
one of Mr. Punch’s prophecies that has

INNOCENCE.

GE.vn.EiHN.—Seed a little dog, m»'rm t no ma'rtn. This Itcre'it the lionly dog I 're seed to-day, and lie don't
auswvr to the name (J Fido.

14.—A PICTURE OF INNOCENCE. 1845.

A NICE YOUNQ MAN TOT. A SMALL PARTY.

Younq Ren lie was a nice young min,
An autlior by his trade ;

He Ml in love with Polly-Tie;

And was an M.P. made.

He was a Radical one day,

Rut met a Tory crew ;

His Polly-Tics lie cast away.

And then turned Tory too.

Now It in had tried for many a place

Rut in two years the turning Whigs
Were turn'd to the right-about.

Rut when he called on Rooebt Pcr.t,
tlis talents to employ,

His answer was, “ Young Englander,
For me you're not tho boy."

Oh. Robert Peel ! Oh, Robert Peel •
How could you serve me so I

I've met with Whig rebuffs before.
Rut not a Tory blow.

And then lie tried the game again,

Rut couldn't, though he tried :

11 is party turn’d away from him.

Nor with him would divide.

Young Digland died when in its birth :

In forty -live it fell ;

The papers told the public, but
.None for it toll'd the bell.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

PORTRAIT

OF THE

RAILWAY PANIC.

17. —AT THE END
OF 1845.

become fact. It is in the issue
of October 11, 1845, and

refers to the precipitate influx
of new lines just then taking
place. To us, nowadays, there
is nothing remarkable in this
Railway Map, which might be
mistaken for a genuine railway
map of England and Wales;
but in 1845, when this map
was made by Mr. Punch, he
no doubt intended it as a
piece of satire.

No. 16 introduces us to a
very early Punch - picture of
Benjamin Disraeli [June,
1845]; not the first, which
was, Mr. Philip Agnew tells
me, in the year 1844, but this
is the more interesting picture
of the two. Mr. Punch was
sometimes very severe in his
treatment of Disraeli, and this
sketch with the accompanying
verses is a good example of
Punch's early satire. As re¬
gards Mr. Punch’s politics, it
is interesting to quote the
following words from “ The
History of Punch ” :—

“The Table” [i.e., the weekly
Punch dinner-table at which the car¬
toons, etc., are discussed.—J. II. S.]
has always shown an amalgam of
Conservative and Liberal instincts
and leanings, although* the former
have never been those of the “ pre¬
dominant partner.” The cons ent
effort of the Staff is to be fair and
patriotic, and to subordinate their
personal views to the general good.

j8.— one op- mr. punch’s fjshing tales. 1845,

T9.-- -THE DOCTOR'S ASSISTANT. 1846.

THE LAST NEW RAILWAY SCHEME.

dr modern projectors having exhausted
the old world of railways above ground,
have invented a new world of a 3ubter-
vJl Ull ranean kind, in which they propose to
construct lines •* under the present wide,
leading streets of London.” This is a
magnificent notion for relieving the
over-crowded thoroughfares, and at the
same time relieving any particularly
over-crowded pocket from its oppressive
,'j| burden. The prospectus states that the
t ;l thing “can be accomplished without any
serious engineering difficulties.” 'Hie
diflicultics, instead of being serious, will,
we suppose, be merely laughable. If any
great dilemma should arise, it will of
course be overcome by a little jocularity.

We understand that a survey has already been made, and that many
of the inhabitants along the line have expressed their readiness to place
their coal-cellars at the disposal of the company. It is believed that
much expense may be saved by taking advantage of areas, kitchens,
and coal-holes already made, through which the trains may run with¬
out much inconvenience to the owners, by making a judicious arrange¬
ment of the time-table. It will certainly be awkward if a family should
be waiting for a scuttle of coals, ami should not be able to get it until
after the train had gone by ; but a little domestic foresight, seconded
by railway punctuality, will obviate all annoyances of this kind.

As the contemplated railway must in several places be carried
through the sides and centre of a street, it will be necessary to arrange
with the gas and water companies, so that they may all co-operate in
this great national work. If the atmospheric principle should be
adopted, arrangements could perhaps be entered into to obtain the use
d' the principal main belonging to the water-works as a continuous
.valve; for if we are to judge by the arrangements on the Croydon
line, this continuous valve is a tremendous pipe, which merely lies in
the middle of the line without being used.

The Sewers, by the way, would, with a little enlargement, answer
ill the purposes of the proiectors of tliis scheme. It is true they arc
lialf full of water ; but this would not prevent the carriages from being
propelled, and the wheels might be sufficiently high to keep the bodies
of the carriages and the feet of the passengers out of the wet.

Considering the frequent stoppages of the existing thoroughfares,
the scheme really seems to deserve encouragement. “ Nothing is
wanted,” says the prospectus, “ for this grand undertaking, but public
support.” If the people will only come down with their money,
we should not wonder at seeing the company get as far as half-a-dozeu
advertisements in the daily papers, and a brass plate in the City.
Those who are disposed to sink a little capital cannot do better than
bury jt under the Metropolis in the manner proposed.

We perceive that no amount of deposit is named, and nothing is
said of the number or nominal value of the shares. The Secretary is
announced to be in attendance to receive deposits from eleven to two
though, whether he gets any is, iu our opinion, ten to one.

SUtlTFflKANF.AN RAILWAYS,

20 .—MR. PUNCH SCOFFS AT THE UNDERGROUND RAILWAY
SCHEME. 1846.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

For, whatever the public may think, neither Editor nor
Staff is bound by any consideration to any party or
any person, but hold themselves free to satirise or to
approve “all round.”

When No. 16 was published, Disraeli was
the leader of the “ Young England ” party,

21.—ONE OF LEECH’S SKETCHES. 1847.

having some years previously been converted
from a Radical into a Tory : hence the
allusions contained in the lines below this
sketch.

In a later part of this article Mr. Punch’s

HORRID TRAGEDY IN PRIVATE LITE I

22.—A JOKE DRAWN BY THACKERAY, THE POINT OF WHICH
HAS NEVER BEEN DISCOVERED. 1847.

DOMESTIC BLISS.

Wife of yvw Butsum. “On! I don't want to intyrrutt too, dear. I only want son r. mo:
tor Hart's socks—and to know whether you will have tut. mutton cold or basiitd.**

23.—A PICTURE OF DOMESTIC BLISS. 1847.

treatment of Disraeli’s great rival Gladstone
will be illustrated.

The vivid “ Portrait of the Railway Panic,”
by Doyle, No. 17, was
published November 8,

1845, an d refers to the
depression in railway-
dividends then being
caused by over-competi¬
tion in railway-promo¬
tion ; No. 20 also refers
to the railway-schemes
of that time, and is Mr.

Punch’s ironical notice
[dated September 26,

1846] of “ The Last New
R.jlway Scheme,” i.e., the
proposal for making an
Underground Railway,
which, as we here read,
was scoffed at by Punch
—“The Secretary is
announced to be in
attendance to receive de¬
posits from eleven to two;
though, whether he gets
any is, in our opinion,
ten to one.” But imme¬
diately below these words
Mr. Punch gives a sec¬
tional diagram of the
Underground Railway as
he conceived it, and it is
not a bad shot at “A
prophetic view of the
subterranean railways.”

As a matter of fact, the
works for the now familiar
Metropolitan (Under-

MR. JOU.V BULL AITFR AS ATTACK
Or. INCOME-TAX.

24.—A SKETCH HY
DOY UK* *848,

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

AUTHORS* MISERIES. No. VI.

Old Gentleman. Mias Wiggcts. Two Authors.

Old Gentleman. “I am sorry to see you occupied, my dear Miss Wiggets, -with that trivial paper
‘Punch.’ A Railway is not a place, in my opinion, for jokes. I never joke—never.”

Miss XV. “So I should think, Sir."

Old Gentleman. “ And besides, are you aware who are the conductors op that paper, and that
they are Chartists, Deists, Atheists, Anarchists, and Socialists, to a man t I have it from the

BEST AUTHORITY, THAT THEY MEET TOGETHER ONCE A WEEK IN A TAVERN IN SaINT GILES’S, WHERE THEY
COflcOCT THEIR INFAMOUS PRINT. The CHIEF PART OP THEIR INCOME IS DERIVED FROM THREATENING

Letters which they send to the Nobility and Gentry. The principal Writer is a returned
Convict. Two have been tried at the Old Bailey ; and their Artist—as for their Artist ....
Guard. “ Swin-dun ! Sta-tion l” [ Exeunt two Authors.

25.—DRAWN BY THACKERAY, AND CONTAINING AT THE LEFT PORTRAITS OF THACKERAY
AND OF DOUGLAS JERROLD. 1848.

ground) Railway were commenced in i860 ;
fourteen years after this ironical prophecy
by Punch.

No. 18 is one of John Leech’s jokes on
fishermen’s tales, and No. 19 is another joke
probably based on fact. The amusing
picture, No. 21, illustrating “The Rising
Generation,” is also by John Leech.

No. 22 is a curiosity. It was drawn by
Thackeray and published on page 59 of
Volume XII., February 6, 1847. From that
day to this more than fifty years, no one has
discovered the
point of this joke by
Thackeray. “ The
History of Punch ”
records that on the
appearance of this
sketch the “ Man
in the Moon”
offered “a reward
of ^500 and a free
pardon ” to anyone
who would publish
an explanation.

The reward was
never claimed.

What does this
sketch mean ? Is
the shorter female
a servant caught in
the act of trying on

her mistress’s best cap ?
But if so, why is the
“ scene ” placed in a room
that seems to be a library
and not a bedroom ? And
is the object on, or near,
the front of the taller
woman’s dress, the falling
cap of the servant ? But if
so, how does the servant’s
cap come to be falling as
the figures are placed—
there is no sign on the part
of the servant [?] that she
has just dropped the cap [?]
from her left hand ? This
is truly a puzzle and will
probably never be solved,
although when one remem¬
bers that this was drawn by
Thackeray, and passed, as
one may suppose, by Mark
Lemon, the Editor of Punch
in the year 1847, both men of
keen wit, it is scarcely possi¬
ble to think that this joke
does not contain any point.

A sketch of “ Domestic Bliss ” is shown in
No. 23, and No. 24 is a picture by Richard
Doyle of “ Mr. John Bull after an attack of
Income-Tax.” This was published in the
spring of 1848, and must I think have been
the outcome of a then-recent smart from an
ordinary income-tax payment by Mr. Punch,
for on turning up the income-tax records I
find that the rate was not unusually high in
the year 1848, the tax being 7d. in the jQ for
the years 1846 to 1852.

No. 25 was drawn by Thackeray, in 1848,

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

and the “Two Authors ” at
the left are portraits of
Thackeray, who is reading
the Sunday Times, and of
Douglas Jerrold, who is
leaning against the padded
division of the railway
compartment, while both
authors are listening to
the denunciations of them¬
selves and of their fellow-
Punchites which are being
poured out by the reverend
gentleman at the other
end of the compartment.

Glancing at Nos. 26 and
27, we come to No. 28,
which is one of Richard
Doyle’s very funny serial
sketches, entitled
“ Manners and Customs of
ye Englyshe.” This is one
of the funniest, although,
where all are so good, it
is difficult to single out

THE BEST ADVICE; OR, THE MODERN ABEBNETHY.

“Now, then, Charity, hover with you, or helsk let me come.”

27.— A STREET-ARAB OK 1849.

(To be contmued.)

.Manner^ and-CvstomS• of ? Englyswe-iim 849- ff28-

^EE^ySTALKYNG*-' IN-^YGftbARDE'S

28.— BY RICHARD DOYI.E. 1849.

seen consulting Dr. Punch. There are now
available one hundred and fifteen of these
volumes, and actual experience of Dr.
Punch’s advice to his patient enables me to
thoroughly indorse the soundness of the
advice given by the wise and genial old
doctor of Fleet Street.

any one of this remarkably clever series.
Every bit of this sketch, No. 28, is worth
looking at; the climbing positions of the
deer-stalkers are most comical, and look at the
two gillies holding back the dogs, and at the
stag who is surveying the approaching attack.
This was published September 22, 1849.

When No. 29 was published there were
only eleven (half-yearly) volumes of Punch
available for use by the patient who is here

John Bull. “SUCB 1 TIOHTNEIS IN MV CHEST.'*

Mr . Punch. “Tigbtmess in your chest. Oh! Pooh, Pooh! Reid my noon’

29. —A PIECE OK GOOD ADVICE BY DR, PUNCH. 1847.

From the French of

Erckmann-Chatrian.

HE mineral waters of Spinbronn,
in Hundsruck, a few leagues
from Pirmesans, formerly en¬
joyed an excellent reputation,
for Spinbronn was the rendez¬
vous of all the gouty and
rheumatic members of the German aris¬
tocracy. The wild nature of the surrounding
country did not deter the visitors, for they
were lodged in charming villas at the foot of
the mountain. They bathed in the cascade
which fell in large sheets of foam from the
summit of the rocks, and drank two or three
pints of the water every day. Dr. Daniel
Haselnoss, who prescribed for the sick and
those who thought they were, received his
patients in a large wig, brown coat, and
ruffles, and was rapidly making his fortune.

To-day, however, Spinbronn is no longer
a favourite watering-place. The fashionable
visitors have disappeared; Dr. Haselnoss has
given up his practice; and the town is only
inhabited by a few poor, miserable wood¬
cutters. All this is the result of a succession
of strange and unprecedented catastrophes,
which Councillor Bremen, of Pirmesans,
recounted to me the other evening.

“You know, Mr. Fritz,” he said, “that
the source of the Spinbronn flows from a
sort of cavern about 5 ft. high, and from 10ft.
to 15 ft. across ; the water, which has a tem¬

perature of 6 7deg. centigrade, is salt. The
front of the cavern is half hidden by moss,
ivy, and low shrubs, and it is impossible to
find out the depth of it, because of the
thermal exhalations which prevent any
entrance.

“ In spite of that, it had been remarked for
a century that the birds of the locality,
hawks, thrushes, and turtle - doves, were
engulphed in full flight, and no one knew of
what mysterious influence it was the result.
During the season of 1801, for some unex¬
plained reason, the source became more
abundant, and the visitors one evening,
taking their constitutional promenade on the
lawns at the foot of the rocks, saw a human
skeleton descend from the cascade.

“ You can imagine the general alarm, Mr.
Fritz. It was naturally supposed that a
murder had been committed at Spinbronn
some years before, and that the victim had
been thrown into the source. But the
skeleton, which was blanched as white as
snow, only weighed twelve pounds; and Dr.
Haselnoss concluded that, in all probability,
it had been in the sand more than three
centuries to have arrived at that state of
desiccation.

“ Plausible as his reasoning was, it did not
prevent many visitors leaving that same da)’,
horrified to have drunk the waters. The

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

really gouty and rheumatic ones, however,
stayed on, and consoled themselves with the
doctor’s version. But the following days the
cavern disgorged all that it contained of
detritus ; and a veritable ossuary descended
the mountain—skeletons of animals of all
sorts, quadrupeds, birds, reptiles. In fact,
all the most horrible things that could be
imagined.

“ Then Haselnoss wrote and published a
pamphlet to prove that all these bones were
relics of the antediluvian world, that they
were fossil skeletons, accumulated there in a
sort of funnel during the universal Deluge,
that is to say, four thousand years before
Christ; and, consequently, could only be
regarded as stones, and not as anything
repulsive.

“But his work had barely reassured the
gouty ones, when one fine morning the
corpse of a fox, and then of a hawk, with all
its plumage, fell from the cascade. Impos¬
sible to maintain that these had existed
before the Deluge, and the exodus became
general.

“ ‘ How horrible ! ’ cried the ladies. ‘ That
is where the so-called virtue of mineral
waters springs from. Better die of rheuma¬
tism than continue such a remedy.’

“ At the end of a week the only visitor left
was a stout Englishman, Commodore Sir
Thomas Hawerbrook, who lived on a grand
scale, as most
Englishmen do.

He was tall and
very stout, and of
a florid com¬
plexion. His
hands were liter¬
ally knotted with
gout, and he
would have drunk
no matter what
if he thought it
would cure him.

He laughed loudly
at the desertion of
the sufferers, in¬
stalled himself in
the best of the
villas, and an¬
nounced his inten¬
tion of spending
the winter at
Spinbronn.”

Here Councillor
Bremen leisurely
took a large pinch
of snuff to refresh

his memory, and with the tips of his fingers
shook off the tiny particles which fell on his
delicate lace jabot. Then he went on :—

“ Five or six years before the revolution of
1789, a young doctor of Pirmesans, called
Christian Weber, went to St. Domingo to
seek his fortune. He had been very success¬
ful, and was about to retire, when the revolt
of the negroes occurred. Happily he escaped
the massacre, and was able to save part of
his fortune. He travelled for a time in South
America, and about the period of which I
speak, returned to Pirmesans, and bought
the house and what remained of the practice
of Dr. Haselnoss.

“ Dr. Christian Weber brought with him
an old negress called Agatha; a very ugly
old woman, with a flat nose, and enormous
lips. She always enveloped her head in a
sort of turban of the most startling colours ;
and wore rings in her ears which reached to
her shoulders. Altogether she was such a
singular - looking creature, that the moun¬
taineers came from miles around just to
look at her.

“The doctor himself was a tall, thin

man, invariably dressed in a blue swallow¬
tailed coat and leather breeches. He

talked very little, his laugh was dry and
nervous, and his habits most eccentric.
During his wanderings he had collected a
number of insects of almost every species,

and seemed to be
much more inter¬
ested in them
than in his pa¬
tients. In his
daily rambles
among the moun¬
tains he often
found butterflies
to- add to his
collection, and
these he brought
home pinned to
the lining of his
hat.

“ Dr. Weber,
Mr. Fritz, was
my cousin and
my guardian, and
directly he re¬
turned to Ger¬
many he took
me from school,
and settled me
with him at Spin¬
bronn. Agatha
was a great friend

“AGATHA.”

THE SPIDER OF GUYANA .

of mine, though at first she frightened me,
but she was a good creature, knew how to
make the most delicious sweets, and could
sing the most charming songs.

“ Sir Thomas and Dr. Weber were on
friendly terms, and spent long hours together
talking of subjects beyond my comprehension
—of transmission of fluids, and mysterious
things which they had observed in their
travels. Another mystery to me was the
singular influence which the doctor appeared
to have over the negress, for though she was
generally particularly lively, ready to be
amused at the slightest thing, yet she
trembled like a leaf if she encountered her
master’s eyes fixed upon her.

“ I have told you that birds, and even
large animals, were engulphed in the
cavern. After the disappearance of the
visitors, some of the old inhabitants
remembered that about fifty years before
a young girl, Loisa Muller, who lived with
her grandmother in a cottage near the
source, had suddenly disappeared. She had
gone out one morning to gather herbs, and
was never seen or heard of again, but her
apron had been found a few days later near
the mouth of the cavern. From that it was
evident to ‘all that the skeleton about which
Dr. Haselnoss had written so eloquently
was that of the poor girl, who had, no doubt,
been drawn into the cavern by the mysterious
influence which almost daily acted upon
more feeble creatures. What that influence
was nobody could tell. The superstitious
mountaineers believed that the devil inhabited
the cavern, and terror spread throughout the
district.

“ One afternoon, in the month of July, my
cousin was occupied in classifying his insects
and re-arranging them in their cases. He
had found some curious ones the night
before, at which he was highly delighted. I
was helping by making a needle red-hot in
the flame of a candle.

“ Sir Thomas, lying back in a chair near
the window and smoking a big cigar, was
regarding us with a dreamy air. The com¬
modore was very fond of me. He often
took me driving with him, and used to like
to hear me chatter in English. When the
doctor had labelled all his butterflies, he
opened the box of larger insects.

“ ‘ I caught a magnificent horn - beetle
yesterday,’ he said, ‘ the lucanus cervus of the
Hartz oaks. It is a rare kind.’

“ As he spoke I gave him the hot needle,
which he passed through the insect pre¬
paratory to fixing it on the cork. Sir

Thomas, who had taken no notice till then,
rose and came to the table on which the
case of specimens stood. He looked at the
spider of Guyana, and an expression of
horror passed over his rubicund features.

“ £ There,’ he said, £ is the most hideous
work of the Creator. I tremble only to look
at it.’

“ And, sure enough, a sudden pallor spread
over his face.

“ £ Bah ! ’ said my guardian, £ all that is
childish nonsense. You heard your nurse
scream at a spider, you were frightened,
and the impression has remained. But if
you regard the creature with a strong micro¬
scope, you would be astonished at the
delicacy of its organs, at their admirable
arrangement, and even at their beauty.’

“ £ It disgusts me,’ said the commodore,
brusquely. ‘ Pouff! ’

“And he walked away.

“ ‘ I don’t know why,’ he continued, ‘ but
a spider always freezes my blood.’

“ Dr. Weber burst out laughing, but I felt
the same as Sir Thomas, and sympathized
with him.

“ £ Yes, cousin, take away that horrid
creature,’ I cried. £ It is frightful, and spoils
all the others.’

“ £ Little stupid,’ said he, while his eyes
flashed, £ nobody compels you to look at
them. If you are not pleased you can go.’

“ Evidently he was angry, and Sir Thomas,
who was standing by the window regarding
the mountains, turned suddenly round, and
took me by the hand.

“ £ Your guardian loves his spiders, Frantz,’
he said, kindly. £ We prefer the trees and
the grass. Come with me for a drive.’

£££ Yes, go,’returned the doctor, £ and be
back to dinner at six.’ Then, raising his
voice, £ No offence, Sir Thomas,’ he said.

“ Sir Thomas turned and laughed, and we
went out to the carriage.

“ The commodore decided to drive him¬
self, and sent back his servant. He placed
me on the seat beside him, and we started
for Rothalps. While the carriage slowly
mounted the sandy hill, I was quiet and sad.
Sir Thomas, too, was grave, but my silence
seemed to strike him.

£££ You don’t like the spiders, Frantz;
neither do I. But, thank Heaven ! there
are no dangerous ones in this country. The
spider which your cousin has in his box is
found in the swampy forests of Guyana,
which is always full of hot vapours and
burning exhalations, for it needs a high
temperature to support its existence. Its

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

immense web, or rather its net, would sur¬
round an ordinary thicket, and birds are
caught in it, the same as flies in our spiders’
webs. But do not think any more about it;
let us drink a glass of Burgundy.’

“ As he spoke he lifted the cover of the
seat, and, taking out a flask of wine, poured
me out a full leathern goblet.

“ I felt better when I had drunk it, and we
continued our way. The carriage was drawn
by a little Ardennes pony, which climbed the
steep incline as lightly and actively as a goat.
The air was full of the murmur of myriads
of insects. At our right was the forest of
Rothalps. At our left was the cascade of
Spinbronn; and the higher we mounted, the
bluer became the silver sheets of water
foaming in the distance, and the more
musical the sound as the water passed over
the rocks.

“ Both Sir Thomas and I were captivated
by the spectacle, and, lost in a reverie, allowed
the pony to go on as he would. Soon we
were within a hundred paces of the cavern of
Spinbronn. The shrubs around the entrance
were remarkably green. The water, as it
flowed from the cavern, passed over
the top of the rock, which was slightly
hollowed, and there formed a small
lake, from which it again burst forth
and descended into the valley below.

This lake was shallow, the bottom of
it composed of sand and black peb¬
bles, and, although covered with a
slight vapour, the water was clear and
limpid as crystal.

“The pony stopped to breathe.

Sir Thomas got out and walked about
for a few seconds.

“ 4 How calm it is,’ he said.

“ Then, after a minute’s silence, he
continued : 4 Frantz, if you were not
here, I should have a bathe in that
lake.’

“ £ Well, why not ? ’ I answered. 4 I
will take a walk the while. There
are numbers of strawberries to be
found a little way up that mountain.

I can go and get some, and be back
in an hour.’

“ 4 Capital idea, Frantz. Dr. Weber
pretends that I drink too much Bur¬
gundy ; we must counteract that with
mineral water. This little lake looks
inviting.’

“ Then he fastened the pony to
the trunk of a tree, and waved his
hand in adieu. Sitting down on the
moss, he commenced to take off his

boots, and, as I walked away, he called
after me :—

44 4 In an hour, Frantz.’

44 They were his last words.

44 An hour after I returned. The pony,
the carriage, and Sir Thomas’s clothes were
all that I could see. The sun was going
down and the shadows were lengthening.
Not a sound of bird or of insect, and a silence
as of death filled the solitude. This silence
frightened me. I climbed on to the rock
above the cavern, and looked right and left.
There was nobody to be seen. I called; no
one responded. The sound of my voice
repeated by the echoes filled me with terror.
Night was coming on. All of a sudden I re¬
membered the disappearance of Loisa Muller,
and I hurried down to the front of the cavern.
There I stopped in affright, and glancing
towards the entrance, I saw two red, motion¬
less points.

44 A second later I distinguished some
dark moving object farther back in the
cavern, farther perhaps than human eye had
ever before penetrated : for fear had sharpened
my sight, and given all my senses an acute-

“ I SAW TWO RED, MOTIONLESS POINTS.”

THE SPIDER OF GUYANA.

ness of perception which I had never before
experienced.

“ During the next minute I distinctly heard
the chirp, chirp of a grasshopper, and the
bark of a dog in the distant village. Then
my heart, which had been frozen with terror,
commenced to beat furiously, and I heard
nothing more. With a wild cry I fled,
leaving pony and carriage.

“ In less than twenty minutes, bounding
over rocks and shrubs, I reached my cousin’s
door.

“ 4 Run, run,’ I cried, in a choking tone, as
I burst into the room where Dr. Weber and
some invited friends were waiting for us.

4 Run, run ; Sir Thomas is dead ; Sir Thomas
is in the cavern,’ and I fell fainting on the
floor.

44 All the village turned out to search for
the commodore. At ten o’clock they re¬
turned, bringing back Sir Thomas’s clothes,
the pony, and carriage. They had found
nothing, seen nothing, and it was impossible
to go ten paces into the cavern.

44 During their absence Agatha and I
remained in the chimney-corner, I still
trembling with fear, she, with wide - open
eyes, going from time to time to the window,
from which we could see the torches passing
to and fro on the mountain, and hear the
searchers shout to one another in the still
night air.

44 At her master’s approach Agatha began
to tremble. The doctor entered brusquely,
pale, with set lips. He was followed by
about twenty woodcutters, shaking out the
last remnants of their nearly extinguished
torches.

44 He had barely entered before, with flash¬
ing eyes, he glanced round the room, as if in
search of something. His eyes fell on the
negress, and without a word being exchanged
between them the poor woman began to cry.

4 4 4 No, no, I will not,’ she shrieked.

4 4 4 But I will,’ returned the doctor, in a
hard tone.

44 The negress shook from head to foot, as
though seized by some invisible power. The
doctor pointed to a seat, and she sat down
as rigid as a corpse.

44 The woodcutters, good, simple people,
full of pious sentiments, crossed themselves,
and I, who had never yet heard of the
hypnotic force, began to tremble, thinking
Agatha was dead.

44 Dr. Weber approached the negress, and
passed his hands over her forehead.

44 4 Are you ready ? ’ he said.

4 4 4 Yes, sir.’

4 4 4 Sir Thomas Hawerbrook.’

44 At these words she shivered again.

4 4 4 Do you see him ?

44 4 Yes, yes,’ she answered, in a gasping
voice, 4 1 see him.’

4 4 4 Where is he ? ’

44 4 Up there, in the depths of the cavern—
dead ! ’

4 4 4 Dead ! ’ said the doctor ; 4 how ? ’

4 4 4 The spider ! oh, the spider ! ’

4 4 4 Calm yourself,’ said the doctor, who
was very pale. 4 Tell us clearly.’

44 4 The spider holds him by the throat-
in the depths of the cavern—under the rock
—enveloped in its web—Ah ! ’

44 Dr. Weber glanced round on the people,
who, bending forward, with eyes starting out
of their heads, listened in horror.

44 Then he continued : 4 You see him ? ’

44 4 1 see him.’

4 4 4 And the spider. Is it a big one ? ’

4 4 4 O Master, never, never, have I seen
such a big one. Neither on the banks of
the Mocaris, nor in the swamps of Konanama.
It is as large as my body.’

44 There was a long silence. Everybody
waited with livid face and hair .on end.
Only the doctor kept calm. Passing his
hand two or three times over the woman’s
forehead, he recommenced his questions.
Agatha described how Sir Thomas’s death
happened.

4 4 4 He was bathing in the lake of the
source. The spider saw his bare back from
behind. It had been fasting for a long time,
and was hungry. Then it saw Sir Thomas’s
arm on the water. All of a sudden it rushed
out, put its claws round the commodore’s
neck. He cried out, 44 Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu.”
The spider stung him and went back, and
Sir Thomas fell into the water and died.
Then the spider returned, spun its web
round him, and swam slowly, gently back to
the extremity of the cavern; drawing Sir
Thomas after it by the thread attached to its
own body.’

44 1 was still sitting in the chimney corner,
overwhelmed with fright. The doctor turned
to me.

4 4 4 Is it true, Frantz, that the commodore
was going to bathe ? ’

44 4 Yes, cousin.’

4 4 4 At what time ? ’

4 4 4 At four o’clock.’

4 4 4 At four o’clock ? It was very hot then,
was it not ? ’

4 4 4 Yes ; oh, yes.’

4 4 4 That’s it. The monster was not afraid
to come out then.’

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ He spoke a few unintelligible words, and
turned to the peasants.

“ ‘ My friends,’ he cried, £ that is where
the mass of debris and those skeletons come
from. It is the spider which has frightened
away your visitors, and ruined you all. It is

stopped. The torches were lighted and the
crowd advanced. The limpid water flowed
over the sand, reflecting the blue light of
the resinous torches, the rays of which
illuminated the tops of the dark, overhang¬
ing pines on the rocks above us.

“ IT RUSHED OUT AND PUT ITS CLAWS AROUND THE COMMODORE’S NECK.”

there hidden in its web, entrapping its prey
into the depths of the cavern. Who can say
the number of its victims ? ’

“He rushed impetuously from the house,
and all the woodcutters hurried after him.

“ £ Bring fagots, bring fagots ! ’ he cried.
“Ten minutes later two immense carts,
laden with fagots, slowly mounted the hill;
a long file of woodcutters followed, with
hatchets on their shoulders. My guardian
and I walked in front, holding the horses by
the bridle ; while the moon lent a vague,
melancholy light to the funereal procession.

“ At the entrance of the cavern the cortege

“ £ It is here you must unload,’ said the
doctor. £ We must block up the entrance
of the cavern.’

“ It was not without a feeling of dread
that they commenced to execute his order.
The fagots fell from the tops of the carts,
and the men piled them up before the
opening, placing some stakes against them to
prevent their being carried away by the
water. Towards midnight the opening was
literally closed by the fagots. The hissing
water below them flowed right and left over
the moss, but those on the top were perfectly
dry.

THE SPIDER OF GUYANA.

“Then Dr. Weber took a lighted torch,
and himself set fire to the pile. The flames
spread from twig to twig, and rose towards
the sky, preceded by dense clouds of smoke.
It was a wild, strange sight, and the woods
lighted by the crackling flames had a weird
effect. Thick volumes of smoke proceeded
from the cavern, while the men standing
round, gloomy and motionless, waited with
their eyes fixed on the opening. As for me,
though I trembled from head to foot, I could
not withdraw my gaze.

“We waited quite a quarter of an hour,
and Dr. Weber began to be impatient, when
a black object, with long, crooked claws,

“ Evidently driven by the heat, the spider
had taken refuge in its den. Then, suffocated
by the smoke, it had returned to the charge,
and rushed into the middle of the flames.
The body of the horrible creature was as
large as a man’s, reddish violet in colour, and
most repulsive in appearance.

“That, Mr. Fritz, is the strange event
which destroyed the reputation of Spinbronn.
I can swear to the exactitude of my story,
but it would be impossible for me to give
you an explanation. Nevertheless, admitting
that the high temperature of certain thermal
springs furnishes the same conditions of
existence as the burning climate of Africa

“one of the men threw his hatchet."

suddenly appeared in the shadow, and then
threw itself forward towards the opening.
One of the men, fearing that it would leap
over the fire, threw his hatchet, and aimed at
the creature so well that, for an instant, the
blood which flowed from its wound half-
quenched the fire, but soon the flame revived,
and the horrible insect was consumed.

and South America, it is not unreasonable to
suppose that insects, subject to its influence,
can attain an enormous development.

“ Whatever may have been the cause, my
guardian decided that it would be useless
to attempt to resuscitate the waters of Spin¬
bronn ; so he sold his house, and returned to
America with his negress and his collection.”

7 'he Training Ship “ Exmouth

By Dr. Ch. H. Leibbrand.

Illustrated from Photographs taken under his direction by A. and G. Taylor , Photographers to the Queen.

EADER, have you been to
Grays, the station next to
historical Purfleet, on the
London and Tilbury line to
Southend ? If not, let me tell
you that it is not a large place,
nor a nice place either. Still, this struggling
township on the Thames is worth visiting.
Almost within the shadow of its tiny red
brick houses lies one of the finest institu¬
tions in England for the making of sailors,
and soldiers, and citizens—for the making of
men.

Proceeding a short distance along the
main street towards the river the traveller
will be brought face to face with this civilizing
centre. He will see a huge, bold, sturdy vessel

officers still more eloquently testify to its
intimate connection with the defences of the
country—with the Navy and the Army,
with the development of patriotism and
citizenship. For, from this training ship
have gone forth about 5,700 youths, well
equipped for the struggle of existence,
and not less well trained to battle with
winds and waves and the treachery of oceans
deep. Indeed, of these 5,700 no fewer than
2,106 went to swell the ranks of the Royal
Navy; 446 shipped as ordinary seamen;
1,385 as deck and cabin boys; 150 as
apprentices, and 300 as assistant cooks and
stewards. And again, within the same
period, 900 have joined the Army as band
boys; whilst hundreds, once more, embarked

riding proudly upon the ebbing and flowing
tide, moored about a hundred yards off the
shore. This splendid three-decker* of 3,106
tons displacement and with a measurement
of 220ft. by 59ft., is London’s training ship
Exmouth.

The vessel’s ninety - one portholes still
proclaim its original character—that of a man-
of-war ; even though her armament consists
now of but two truck and two field pieces,
instead of the ninety-one guns which should
be mounted there. Its complement of 600
lads, its Captain-Superintendent, and staff of

with average fair success upon other occu¬
pations, taking to handicrafts, trades, and
industries for which they received their first
moral and sound practical training on board
this veteran three-decker.

A large part of the striking prosperity
which has attended die Exmouth is un¬
doubtedly due to the most competent
Captain - Superintendent in Staff - Com¬
mander W. S. Bourchier. Entering the
Navy in 1840, as a navigating midshipman
on board the Impregnable , this officer had,
previous to his appointment to the Goliath

THE TRAINING SHIP

“ EXMOUTH.

CAPTAIN BOURCHIER, HIS DAUGHTER, AND GRAND-DAUGHTER

in 1870, passed through a school of excellent
training. After successive services as navi¬
gating sub-lieutenant, first in the Mediter¬
ranean, on board the Polyphemus; then on
the south-east coast of America, on the brigan¬
tine Griffo?i, he
had (upon being
promoted navigat¬
ing lieutenant)
held the command
of the Myrtle ,
steamer-tender to
the flagship, for
close on twelve
years. And this
varied and instruc¬
tive career Captain
Bourchier had
been able to com¬
plete by a further
service as navigat¬
ing lieutenant to
the then Captain,
now Admiral, Sir
Anthony Hoskins,
on board the
Zebra , engaged
upon a lengthy

Vol. xvii.—12

cruise along the coast of Africa.
With so thoroughly trained and
experienced an officer in command
the experiment could, therefore,
hardly fail to prosper.

So successful, indeed, has been
the training and other educational
work carried on on board this
splendid three-decker that the last
report of Admiral Bosanquet, than
whom as Inspecting Captain-General
of Naval Training Ships there can
hardly be a better authority, may
be taken as typical. In this report
he says:—

The training ship Exmouth for boys is
in most excellent order. The drills and
instructions are exceedingly well taught,
and the comfort and well-being of the
lads is sedulously attended to. Captain
Bourchier’s arrangements are admirable
and conscientiously carried out by a very
able staff of officers. It is a model train¬
ing ship .

And a model training ship the
Exmouth truly is; the brief history
of which, who knows ? may be a not
unimportant factor in the making
of British history. To appreciate
this paradox, reader, you must see
this tiny, yet withal so manly, crew
as it was a short time ago my good
fortune to see them when I visited the vessel,
piloted by that genial assistant clerk to the
Metropolitan Asylums Board, Mr. John
Mallett. The notice informing the Captain-
Superintendent of our intended visit, I after

9 o

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

AT GYMNASTICS.

wards learned, had reached him but a few
minutes previous to our arrival. Yet the
moment we appeared on the landing-stage,
the wind carried to us five notes of an
assembly call. This was the only distinct sign
of life on board. But scarcely had it passed by

when, as if by magic, the cutters and whalers,
the gigs and pinnaces, and the launches of
the Exmouth were manned and afloat;
when on the main and upper decks, and on
the bowsprit, and up the fore, main, and
mizzen masts swarmed Liliputians to their

RIFLE DRILL.

THE TRAINING SHIP “ EXMOUTH

FENCING DRILL.

posts, every tiny man ready to “ do his
duty.” Though, to be sure, it is not
an easy duty these sailor boys have to
perform, for the routine and discipline on
board the Exmouth is as that on board a
man-of-war, tempered only by a consideration
of the youth of the crew and by the maxim
that “kindness
leads farther than
harshness.”

From the early
morning, when the
bugle calls for the
speedy slinging up
of their hammocks
on the orlop-deck,
till late in the
evening, when the
general retreat is
sounded and thfe
hammocks are
once more un¬
slung, the various
boat - crews and
classes are kept
going. Yet not
as fancy’s whim
suggests; maxims
evolved from
sound experience
inspire the educa¬

tional system on board. For instance, cleanli¬
ness is said to be next to godliness. The two,
again, are known to be most conducive to
discipline. At the same time, the strictest
observance of these three precepts is recog¬
nised to be absolutely essential to the well¬
being of a large floating establishment. In

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

DISMOUNTING FIELD-GUNS.

conformity with these truisms, thorough
ablutions and thoughtful religious practices,
such as morning and evening prayers, at which
both officers and crew attend, are, therefore,
as prominent features of the training on the
Exmouth as is the

to their outward
cleanliness.

This agility, this
precision in the
action and decis¬
ion in the conduct
of the boy-sailors
and marines, is
noticeable at
whatever occupa¬
tion they may be.
Such perfection is
to a great extent
due to the lads’
instruction in
gymnastics and
athletics. As the
several illustra¬
tions show, in
these they pass
through a most
comprehensive
and systematic
course. They are trained in whatever may
tend towards the development of their
muscles. So efficiently are the boys taught,
that those whom I have seen at my visit go
through most difficult exercises on the hori¬

excellent discip¬
line maintained
on board the
vessel. The ablu-
tions, however,
are particularly
worthy of men¬
tion ; the process
is so original.

There is a huge,
broad tank - bath
in the lavatory;
not much smaller
than a usual-sized
swimming bath.

Thither the lads
proceed in march¬
ing order, though,
of course, without
any baggage, how¬
ever slight; and
promptly start to
give themselves a
wholesome shampoo with carbolic soap.
Being thus lathered they plunge head fore¬
most into the tank. Diving straight through
its full width, with wonderful agility they
then bound over its anything but low
side, landing — at attention — before the
officer on watch, ready for inspection as

LOCATING THE TRUCK-GUNS.

zontal and parallel bars and on the spring¬
board, 1 would safely have compete with
the best model sections or Masterriegen
of Germany’s leading gymnastic societies.
Yet the Fatherland is the home and,
as it were, the academy of systematic
physical culture 1 Highly satisfactory, too, if

THE TRAINING SHIP “ EX MOUTH

FIRING THE TRUCK-GUN.

not truly astonishing, is the perfect manner
in which the Liliputians on board the
Exmouth take to their musketry, bayonet, and
cutlass drill. Reader, you need but look at
the illustrating snap-shots to feel that, when
grown up or even before, these lads will
prove men and warriors bold and true should
occasion arise. Indeed, as it is, when
witnessing the earnestness and skill with

which each com¬
mand of the drill-
masters is exe¬
cuted, you soon
fancy to be face to
face with a com¬
pany of marines— :
veterans in the
exercise of arms
— although, in
fact, they are a
company of mere
boys, rescued from
the streets and
recruited from the
workhouses. And
as veterans in arms
they behave at
gun drill. At
mounting or dis¬
mounting field-
pieces, at charg¬
ing or discharging
the truck - guns, they are equally smart.
How well the crews are trained, both
in the use of rifle, cutlass, and cannon,
and in their more extensive and complicated
application to military tactics, is demon¬
strated by the photos, illustrating a sham-
fight between a party of sailors and an
imaginary enemy. It can be seen at a glance
that the proceedings are looked upon by the

SHAM-FIGHT.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

boys as something more than an amusing
intermezzo in their daily routine; with them
it is a serious lesson to be learned seriously.

However, the champions of disarmament
and the advocates of peace must not assume
that the training ship’s youthful crew is
reared up only in the spirit of militarism,
and instructed only in the manifold defen¬
sive and offensive uses of the weapons of
war. The picture showing the boy sailors
and marines engaged upon Samaritan work,
carried out with a promptitude and circum¬
spection of which a master in surgery need
not be ashamed, would already disprove
their assumption. Yet, they may feel further
assured that these prin¬
ciples of assisting the suffer¬
ing are not confined in
their educational operation
to the mere bandaging and
nursing of the wounded.

These are inculcated into
the mind and heart of
the lads by many other
methods, and applicable to
many and far different situ¬
ations.

For, hand in hand with
their military training, the
wards of the Metropolitan
Asylums Board receive the
benefit of moral training
and a sound elementary
education under the able
direction of Mr. W. Hol-

lam by, the head
schoolmaster on
board the vessel.
This education, in
spite of a rather
small staff, con¬
sidering the hun¬
dreds of pupils,
is not only equal
to that provided
at any Metropoli¬
tan Board School,
but it aspires, jus¬
tifiably, because
s u ccessfully —
even beyond—at a
higher, more com¬
prehensive, more
thorough - going
instruction, excel¬
lent though teach¬
ing in London’s
Board Schools fre¬
quently is.

Nor is the industrial side forgotten in the
system of training on the Exmouth. Tailor¬
ing, carpentering, painting, sail and net-
making, and so on, are part of the trades the
boys have to learn and to prove efficient at.
Indeed, most of the extensive and often
difficult repairs constantly necessary to the
three-decker, to her many boats, and to the
boys’ own outfits, are done by the latter,
and done by these youngsters remarkably
well, as, reader, you will see for yourself,
if your good fortunes ever ship you to the
Exmouth. I say advisedly “good fortunes,”
because there is a healthiness, a breeziness
about the ship, about its captain, officers,

BRIGANTINE STEADFAST.

THE TRAINING SHIP “ EXMOUTH.

MUSICAL DRILL.

Oceans and the
foremost coloniz¬
ing and civilizing
Power on earth ?
Naturally, to
achieve this aim
the tasks which
devolve alike upon
instructors and in¬
structed are mani¬
fold and heavy.
How many thous¬
and and one details
have to be taught
— and learned ?
How many thou¬
sand and one
minute elements
are necessary to
the making of

and numerous crew which truly smacks of
the free, wholesome, bracing sea, and which
cannot fail to act upon the visitor from the
town as an excellent nerve-tonic.

This healthinesss, this breeziness, as it
were, this sea-atmosphere is, however, easily
accounted for by the very nature, by the very
purpose of the vessel. Is not the aim of
the education, of the training, on board the
Exmouth above all to produce sailors of the
type of those who have made England what
she is to-day—the Queen and the beneficent
Ruler of the

genuine seamen of these boys ? As the
kindly paymaster, Mr. A. Thompson, puts
it in his “ Exmouth Song ” :—

They are to be bothered with splice and knot,

With bends and hitches and I don’t know what ;

So many, they can’t tell t’other from which ;

Nor a double Matthew Walker from a plain clove hitch.

But it quickly comes all right ; the
instructors and the lads’ hearts are m their
work. Thus:—

They very soon pass a torn-i-key (tourniquet)

As well as any Captain in the Queen’s Navee.

AT MESS.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Sometimes, to be sure, a more practical
lesson, which brings the matter truly home,
is wanted. As for instance when :—

They go for a pull, and whilst afloat,

Catch a crab that knocks them down in the boat.

Yet here, too, all things work towards a
good end. Therefore : —

To them that crab a lesson will be,

To make them smart sailors in the Queen’s Navee.

And that these Liliputian men on board
the Exmouth become smart sailors is vouch¬
safed not only by Captain-Superintendent
Bourchier, and his capable chief officer,
Mr. Wellman; not only by the brigantine
Steadfast , the three-decker’s sailing tender,
and, as our illustration shows, a bold, hand¬
some yacht, of ioo tons burden, with
roomy decks and comfortable quarters for
fifty lads; but it is also vouchsafed by her
weather-beaten commander, Mr. Thomas
Hall, than whom there is scarcely a more
confidence-inspiring, able salt. Indeed, our
Navy owes much to this brigantine. Apart
from the nautical training she affords to the
Exmouth boys, it is she who, by means of her
constant cruises to southern and western
ports, brings her complement of excellently
taught youths to the direct notice of the
captains of our men-of-war. How much they
appreciate the budding sailors thus brought
before them is shown by the fact that on

each return from such a cruise the crew of
the brigantine is considerably reduced. But
not in consequence of desertions. No, the
men-of-war men like the lads, and the lads
like the men-of-war men. So it comes to pass
that the sailor-boys of London’s Training
Ship Exmouth become blue-jackets of the
Nation and her Queen. And once embarked
upon this career we may safely leave them,
although, reader, I would fain tell you yet of
the large and exceptionally skilled band on
board the three-decker which supplies our
Navy and, particularly, our Army with so
many able musicians every year. I would
fain tell you of the Infirmary . and its
devoted matron, and of the Shipping Home
at Limehouse, kept in connection with
the training ship for the purpose of provid¬
ing to the Exmouth lads berths on board
merchantmen, and of affording them some
safe anchorage when momentarily without a
vessel through no fault of their own. I would
fain enlist your co-operation in agitating for
the increase of training ships such as the one
I have endeavoured to describe to you, inas¬
much as in these, I hold, lies the strength of
our future Navy and supremacy of the seas.
But space does not permit me. May I
be at least consoled by the hope that I
have roused your interest in, and kindled
your sympathy for, the Exmouth and her
officers and crew.

LEAVING THE SHU*.

By W. W. Jacobs.

F course, there is a deal of
bullying done at sea at times,
said the night watchman,
thoughtfully. The men call
it bullying an’ the officers call
it discipline, but it’s the same
thing under another name. Still, it’s fair in
a way. It gets passed on from one to
another. Everybody aboard a’most has got
somebody to bully, except, perhaps, the
smallest boy; he ’as the worst of it, unless
he can manage to get the ship’s cat by itself
occasionally.

I don’t think sailor-men mind being
bullied. I never ’eard of it’s putting one off
’is feed yet, and that’s the main thing, arter
all’s said and done.

Fust officers are often worse than skippers.
In the fust place, they know they ain’t
skippers, an’ that alone is enough to put ’em
in a bad temper, especially if they’ve ’ad
their certifikit a good many years and can’t
get a vacancy.

I remember, a good many years ago now,
I was lying at Calcutta one time in the
Peeivit , as fine a barque as you’d wish to see,
an’ we ’ad a fust mate there as was a disgrace
to ’is sects. A nasty, bullying, violent man,
who used to call the hands names as

Vol. x'vii.—13.

they didn’t know the meanings of and what
was no use looking in the dictionary for.

There was one chap aboard, Bill Cousins,
as he used to make a partikler mark of.
Bill ’ad the misfortin to ’ave red ’air, and the
way the mate used to throw that in ’is face
was disgraceful. Fortunately for us all, the
skipper was a very decent sort of man, so
that the mate was only at ’is worst when he
wasn’t by.

We was sitting in the fo’c’s’le at tea one
arternoon, when Bill Cousins came down,
an’ we see at once ’e’d ’ad a turn with the
mate. He sat all by hisself for some time
simmering, an’ then he broke out. “ One
o’ these days I’ll swing for ’im ; mark my
words.”

“ Don’t be a fool, Bill,” ses Joe Smith.

“ If I could on’y mark ’im,” says Bill,
catching his breath. “ Just mark ’im fair an’
square. If I could on’y ’ave ’im alone for
ten minutes, with nobody standing by to
see fair play. But, o’ course, if I ’it ’im it’s
mutiny.”

“ You couldn’t do it if it wasn’t, Bill,” ses
Joe Smith again.

“ He walks about the town as though the
place belongs to ’im,” said Ted Hill. “ Most
of us is satisfied to shove the niggers out o’

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

the way, but he ups fist an’ ’its ’em if they
comes within a yard of ’im.”

“Why don’t they ’it’im back?” ses Bill.

“ I would if I was them.”

Joe Smith grunted. “Well, why don’t
you ? ” he asked.

“ ’Cos I ain’t a nigger,” ses Bill.

“ Well, but you might be,” ses Joe, very
soft. “ Black your face an’ ’ands an’ legs,
and dress up in them cotton things, and go
ashore and get in ’is way.”

“If you will, I will, Bill,” ses a chap called
Bob Pullin.

Well, they talked it over and over, and at
last Joe, who seemed to take a great interest
in it, went ashore and got the duds for ’em.
They was a tight fit for Bill, Hindu’s not
being as wide as they might be, but Joe said
if ’e didn’t bend about he’d be all right, and
Pullin, who was a smaller man, said his was
fust class.

After they were dressed, the next question
was wot to use to colour them with; coal was
too scratchy, an’ ink Bill didn’t like. Then
Ted Hill burnt a cork and started on Bill’s
nose with it afore it was cool, an’ Bill didn’t
like that.

“ Look ’ere,” ses the carpenter, “ nothin’
seems to please you, Bill—it’s my opinion
you’re backing out of it.”

“ You’re a liar,” ses Bill.

“Well, I’ve got some stuff in a can as
might be boiled-down Hindu for all you
could tell to the difference,” ses the
carpenter; “and if you’ll keep that ugly
mouth of your’s shut, I’ll paint you myself.”

Well, Bill was a bit flattered, the car¬
penter being a very superior sort of a man,
and quite an artist in ’is way, an’ Bill sat
down an’ let ’im do ’im with some stuff out
of a can that made ’im look like a Hindu
what ’ad been polished. Then Bob Pullin
was done too, an’ when they’d got their
turbins on, the change in their appearance
was wonderful.

“ Feels a bit stiff,” ses Bill, working ’is
mouth.

“That’ll wear off,” ses the carpenter; “it
wouldn’t be you if you didn’t ’ave a grumble,
Bill.”

“ And mind and don’t spare ’im, Bill,”
ses Joe. “ There’s two of you, an’ if you
only do wot’s expected of you, the mate
ought to ’ave a easy time abed this v’y’ge.”

“ Let the mate start fust,” ses Ted Hill.
“ He’s sure to start on you if you only get in
’is way. Lord, I’d like to see his face when
you start on ’im ! ”

Well the two of ’em went ashore after

dark with the best wishes o’ all on board,
an’ the rest of us sat down in the fo’c’s’le
spekerlating as to what sort o’ time the mate
was goin’ to ’ave. He went ashore all right,
because Ted Hill see ’im go, an’ he noticed
with partikler pleasure as ’ow he was dressed
very careful.

It must ha’ been near eleven o’clock. I
was sitting with Smith on the port side o’ the
galley, when we heard a ’ubbub approaching
the ship. It was the mate just coming
aboard. He was without ’is ’at; ’is neck-tie
was twisted round ’is ear, and ’is shirt and
’is collar was all torn to shreds. The second
and third officers ran up to him to see what
was the matter, and while he was telling
them, up comes the skipper.

“You don’t mean to tell me, Mr. Fingall,”
ses the skipper, in surprise, “ that you’ve been
knocked about like that by them mild and
meek Hindus ? ”

“ Hindus, sir ? ” roared the mate. “ Cer-
t’n’y not, sir. I’ve been assaulted like this by
five German sailor-men. And I licked ’em
all.”

“ I’m glad to hear that,” ses the skipper;
and the second and third pats the mate on
the back,, just like you pat a dog you don’t
know.

“ Big fellows they was/’ ses he, “ an’ they
give me some trouble. Look at my eye ! ”

The second officer struck a match and
looked at it, and it cert’n’y was a beauty.

“ I hope you reported this at the police-
station ? ” ses the skipper.

“ No, sir,” ses the mate, holding up ’is ’ed.
“ I don’t want no p’lice to protect me. Five’s
a large number, but I drove ’em off, and I
don’t think they’ll meddle with any British
fust officers again.”

“You’d better turn in,” ses the second,
leading him off by the arm.

The mate limped off with him, and as soon
as the coast was clear we put our ’eds together
and tried to make out how it was that Bill
Cousins and Bob ’ad changed themselves
into five German sailor-men.

“ It’s the mate’s pride,” ses the carpenter.
“He didn’t like being knocked about by
Hindus.”

We thought it was that, but we had to wait
nearly another hour afore the two came
aboard, to make sure. There was a differ¬
ence in the way they came aboard, too, from
that of the mate. They didn’t make no
noise, and the fust thing we knew of their
coming aboard was seeing a bare, black foot
waving feebly at the top of the fo’c’s’le ladder
feelin’ for the step.

FALSE COLO UBS.

That was Bob. He came down without a
word, and then we see ’e was holding another
black foot and guiding it to where it should
go. That was Bill, an’ of all the ’orrid, limp¬
looking blacks that you ever see, Bill was the

“I wish ’e ’ad,” ses Bill, with a groan;
“ my face is bruised and cut about cruel. I
can’t bear to touch it.”

“ Do you mean to say the two of you
couldn’t settle ’im?” ses Joe, staring.

“ IT cf.rt’n’y was a beauty.”

worst when he got below. He just sat on a
locker all of a heap and held ’is ’ed, which
was swollen up, in ’is hands. Bob went and
sat beside ’im, and there they sat, for all
the world like two wax-figgers instead o’
human beings.

“ Well, you done it, Bill ?” ses Joe, after
waiting a long time for them to speak. “ Tell
us all about it! ”

“ Nothin’ to tell,” ses Bill, very surly.
“We knocked ’im about.”

“ And he knocked us about,” ses Bob,
with a groan. “ I’m sore all over, and as
for my feet-”

“ Wot’s the matter with them?” ses Joe.

“ Trod on,” ses Bob, very short. “ If my
bare feet was trod on once they was a dozen
times. I’ve never ’ad such a doing in all my
life. He fought like a devil. I thought he’d
ha’ murdered Bill.”

“ I mean to say we got a hiding,” ses Bill.
“We got close to him fust start off and got
our feet trod on. Arter that it was like fight¬
ing a windmill, with sledge-hammers for sails.”

He gave a groan and turned over in his
bunk, and when we asked him some more
about it, swore at us. They both seemed
quite done up, and at last dropped off to
sleep just as they was, without even stopping
to wash the black off or to undress themselves.

I was awoke rather early in the morning
by the sounds of somebody talking to them¬
selves, and a little splashing of water. It
seemed to go on a long while, and at last I
leaned out of my bunk and see Bill bending
over a bucket and washing himself and using
bad language.

“ Wot’s the matter, Bill ? ” ses Joe, yawning
and sitting up in bed.

“ My skin’s that tender, I can hardly touch

IOO

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

it,” ses Bill, bending down and rinsing 5 is face.
“ Is it all orf ? ”

“Orf?” ses Joe; “no, o’ course it ain’t.
Why don’t you use some soap ? ”

“Soap,”answers Bill, mad-like; “why, I’ve
used more soap than I’ve used for six months
in the ordinary way.”

“That’s no good,” ses Joe; “give your¬
self a good wash.”

Bill put down the soap then very careful,
and went over to |m and told him all the
dreadful things he’d do to him when he got
strong ag’in, and then Bob Pullin got out of
his bunk an’ ’ad a try on his face. Him
an’ Bill kept washing, and then taking each
other to the light and trying to believe it
was coming off until they got sick of it, and
then Bill ’e up with his foot and capsized
the bucket, and walked up and down the
fo’c’s’le raving.

“Well, the carpenter put it on,” ses a
voice, “ make ’im take it orf.”

You wouldn’t believe the job we ’ad to
wake that man up. He wasn’t fairly woke
till he was hauled out of ’is bunk an’ set
down opposite them two pore black fellers
an’ told to make ’em white again.

“ I don’t believe as there’s anything will
touch it,” he ses, at last. “ I forgot all about
that.”

“ Do you mean to say,” bawls Bill, “ that
we’ve got to be black all the rest of our life?”

“ Certrily not,” ses the carpenter, indig¬
nantly, “ it’ll wear off in time; shaving every
morning ’ll ’elp it, I should say.”

“ I’ll get my razor now,” ses Bill, in a
awful voice; “don’t let ’im go, Bob. I’ll
’ack ’is head orf.”

He actually went off an’ got his razor, but
o’ course, we jumped out o’ our bunks and
got between ’em and told him plainly that it
was not to be, and then we set ’em down and
tried everything we could think of, from
butter and linseed oil to cold tea-leaves used
as a poultice, and all it did was to make ’em
shinier an’ shinier.

“ It’s no good, I tell you,” ses the carpenter,
“it’s the most lasting black I know. If I
told you how much that stuff is a can, you
wouldn’t believe me.”

“ Well, you’re in it,” ses Bill, his voice all
of a tremble; “you done it so as we could
knock the mate about. Whatever’s done to
us ’ll be done to you too.”

“I don’t think turps ’ll touch it,” ses
the carpenter, getting up, “but we’ll ’ave
a try.”

He went and fetched the can and poured
some out on a bit o’ rag and told Bill to dab
his face with it. Bill give a dab, and the
next moment he rushed over with a scream
and buried his head in a shirt what Simmons
was wearing at the time and began to wipe
his face with it. Then he left the flustered
Simmons an’ shoved another chap away
from the bucket and buried his face in it and
kicked and carried on like a madman. Then
’e jumped into his bunk again and buried ’is
face in the clothes and rocked hisself and
moaned as if he was dying.

“ HE BURIED HIS FACE IN IT.”

FALSE COLOURS.

IOI

“ Don’t you use it, Bob,” he ses, at last.

“ ’Tain’t likely,” ses Bob. “ It’s a good
thing you tried it fust, Bill.”

“ ’Ave they tried holy-stone ? ” ses a voice
from a bunk.

“ No, they ain’t,” ses Bob, snappishly,
“and, what’s more, they ain’t goin’ to.”

Both o’ their tempers was so bad that we
let the subject drop while we was at break¬
fast. The orkard persition of affairs could no
longer be disregarded. Fust one chap threw
out a ’int and then another, gradually getting
a little stronger and stronger, until Bill turned
round in a uncomfortable way and requested
of us to leave off talking with our mouths
full and speak up like Englishmen wot we
meant.

“You see, it’s this way, Bill,”ses Joe, soft-
like. “ As soon as the mate sees you there’ll
be trouble for all of us.”

“Oh, desart is it?” ses Bill ; “an’ where
are we goin’ to desart to ? ”

“ Well, that we leave to you,” ses Joe ;
“ there’s many a ship short-’anded as would
be glad to pick up sich a couple of prime
sailor-men as you an’ Bob.”

“ Ah, an’ wot about our black faces ? ” ses
Bill, still in the same sneering, ungrateful
sort o’ voice.

“ That can be got over,” ses Joe.

“ ’Gw ? ”ses Bill and Bob together.

“Ship as nigger-cooks,” ses Joe, slapping
his knee and looking round triumphant.

It’s no good trying to do some people a
kindness. Joe was perfectly sincere, and
nobody could say but wot it wasn’t a good
idea, but o’ course Mr. Bill Cousins must
consider hisself insulted, and I can only
suppose that the trouble he’d gone through
’ad affected his brain. Likewise Bob Pullins.

THE TWO MEN WAS SCROUGED UP IN A CORNER.”

“ For all of us,” repeats Bill, nodding.

“Whereas,” ses Joe, looking round for
support, “ if we gets up a little collection for
you and you should find it convenient to
desart.”

“ ’Ear ’ear,” ses a lot o’ voices.

Joe.”

Anyway, that’s the only excuse I can make
for ’em. To cut a long story short, nobody
’ad any more breakfast, and no time to do
anything until them two men was scrouged
up in a corner an’ ’eld there unable to
move.

“I’d never ’ave done ’em,” ses the car-

“ Bravo,

102

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

penter, arter it was all over, “ if I’d known
they was goin’ to carry on like this. They
wanted to be done.”

“ The mate’ll half murder 'em,” ses Ted
Hill.

“ He’ll ’ave ’em sent to gaol, that’s wot
he’ll do,” ses Smith. “ It’s a serious matter
to go ashore and commit assault and battery
on the mate.”

“You’re all in it,” ses the voice o’ Bill
from the floor. “ I’m going to make a clean
breast of it. Joe Smith put us up to it, the
carpenter blacked us, and the others en¬
couraged us.”

“ Joe got the clothes for us,” ses Bob. “ I
know the place he got ’em from, too.”

The ingratitude o’ these two men was sich
that at first we decided to have no more to
do with them, but better feelings prevailed,
and we held a sort o’ meeting to consider
what was best to be done. An’ everything
that was suggested one o’ them two voices
from the floor found fault with and wouldn’t
’ave, and at last we ’ad to go up on deck,
with nothing decided upon, except to swear
’ard and fast as we knew nothing about it.

“The only advice we can give you,” ses
Joe, looking back at ’em, “ is to stay down
’ere as long as you can.”

making sich a fuss over ’im, that I think he
rather gloried in it than otherwise.

“ Where’s them other two ’ands ? ” he ses
by-and-by, glaring out of ’is black eye.

“Down below, sir, I b’lieve,” ses the
carpenter, all of a tremble.

“Go an’ send ’em up,” ses the mate to
Smith.

“ Yessir,” ses Joe, without moving.

“ Well, go on then,” roars the mate.

“ They ain’t over and above well, sir, this
morning,” ses Joe.

“Send ’em up, confound you,” ses the
mate, limping towards ’im.

Well, Joe give ’is shoulder a ’elpless sort o’
shrug and walked forward and bawled down
the fo’c’s’le.

“ They’re coming, sir,” he ses, walking
back to the mate just as the skipper came
out of ’is cabin.

We all went on with our work as ’ard as
we knew ’ow. The skipper was talking to
the mate about ’is injuries, and saying unkind
things about Germans, when he give a sort
of a shout and staggered back staring. We
just looked round, and there was them two
blackamoors coming slowly towards us.

“ Good heavens, Mr. Fingall,” ses the old
man. “ What’s this ? ”

A’most the fust person we see on deck
was the mate, an’ a pretty sight he was. He’d
got a bandage round ’is left eye, and a black
ring round the other. His nose was swelled
and his lip cut, but the other officers were

I never see sich a look on any man’s
face as I saw on the mate’s then. Three
times ’e opened ’is mouth to speak, and
shut it ag’in without saying anything. The
veins on ’is forehead swelled up tremen-

FALSE COLOURS .

103

dous and ’is cheeks was all blown out
purple.

“ That’s Bill Cousins’ hair,” ses the skipper
to himself. “It’s Bill Cousins’ hair. It’s
Bill Cus-”

Bob walked up to him, with Bill lagging a
little way behind, and then he stops just in
front of ’im and fetches up a sort o’ little
smile.

“ Don’t you make those faces at me, sir,”
roars the skipper. “ What do you mean by
it? What have you been doing to your¬
selves ? ”

“Nothin’, sir,” ses Bill, ’umbly; “it was
done to us.”

The carpenter, who was just going to
cooper up a cask which ’ad started a bit,
shook like a leaf, and give Bill a look that
would ha’ melted a stone.

“Who did it?” ses the skipper.

“ We’ve been the wictims of a cruel outrage,
sir,” ses Bill, doing all ’e could to avoid the
mate’s eye, which wouldn’t be avoided.

“ So I should think,” ses the skipper.
“You’ve been knocked about, too.”

“ Yessir,” ses Bill, very respectful ;“ me
and Bob was ashore last night, sir, just for a
quiet look round, when we was set on to by
five furriners.”

“ What?” ses the skipper; and I won’t
repeat what the mate said.

“ We fought ’em as long as we could, sir,”
ses Bill, “ then we was both knocked sense¬
less, and when we came to ourselves we was
messed up like this ’ere.”

“What sort o’ men were they ? ” asked the
skipper, getting excited.

“ Sailor-men, sir,” ses Bob, putting in his
spoke. “ Dutchies or Germans, or something
o that sort.”

“ Was there one tall man, with a fair

beard,” ses the skipper, getting more and
more excited.

“ Yessir,” ses Bill, in a surprised sort o’
voice.

“Same gang,” ses the skipper. “Same
gang as knocked Mr. Fingall about, you may
depend upon it. Mr. Fingall, it’s a mercy
for you you didn’t get your face blacked
too.”

I thought the mate would ha’ burst. I can’t
understand how any man could swell as he
swelled without bursting.

“ I don’t believe a word of it,” he ses, at
last.

“Why not ?” ses the skipper, sharply.

“Well, I don’t,” ses the mate, his voice
trembling with passion. “I ’ave my reasons.”

“ I s’pose you don’t think these two poor
fellows went and blacked themselves for fun,
do you ? ” ses the skipper.

The mate couldn’t answer.

“ And then went and knocked themselves
about for more fun ? ” says the skipper, very
sarcastic.

The mate didn’t answer. He looked
round helpless like, and see the third officer
swopping glances with the second, and all
the men looking sly and amused, and I think
if ever a man saw ’e was done ’e did at that
moment.

He turned away and went below, and the
skipper arter reading us all a little lecture on
getting into fights without reason, sent the
two chaps below ag’in and told ’em to turn in
and rest. He was so good to ’em all the
way ’ome, and took sich a interest in seeing
’em change from black to brown and from
light brown to spotted lemon, that the mate
daren’t do nothing to them, but gave us their
share of what he owed them as well as an
extra dose of our own.

Animal Actualities.

Note.— Under this title we intend printing a series of perfectly authentic anecdotes of animal life ,
illustrated by Mr. /. A. Shepherd , an artist long a favourite with readers of The Strand Magazine.
We shall be glad to receive similar anecdotes , fully authenticated by names of witnesses , for use in future
numbers. While the stories themselves will be matters of fact, it must be understood that the artist will
treat the subject with freedom and fancy , more with a view to an amusing commentary than to a mere
representation of the occurrence.

VIII.

HIS incident took place in the
spring of 1897, at French’s Farm,
Netherfield, near Battle, Sussex.
This farm lies in the midst of the
chicken-raising district, and it was
at the time in the occupation of Mr. W. A.
Williams. Mr. Williams, among his other
farm operations, reared thousands of chickens,
which the travelling higglers would collect

and fatten for the market. Most of these
chickens were hatched in an incubator and
reared by aid of a foster-mother — which
latter, by the way, is not a motherly old hen,
as some might suppose, but a sort of box
lined with flannel. Sometimes it is merely
an old coop.

The farm was surrounded by woods, and
at first many chicks were lost by raids of

MOTHERLESS AND INQUISITIVE.

ANIMAL ACTUALITIES.

IO S

foxes. To check the foxes, Mr.' Williams
washed the coops well with carbolic acid, and
let his dogs loose at night. This was effectual.
Mr. Williams’s tailless sheepdog “ Satan ”

and a spaniel bitch had many a moonlight fox
hunt together. Satan, by the way, was a
peculiar dog, very quiet, but a game fighter
when roused.

Vol. xvii.—14.

BEYOND THE WIT OF MAN OR DOG.

io6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

For a time the chickens prospered, and
then, one morning, Mr. Williams found but
three left out of some twenty-five fresh-
hatched the day before. It was very odd.
Mr. Williams couldn’t understand it, and his
dog Satan seemed equally puzzled. The
chicks had been turned out in excellent
health the day before, twenty-five inquisitive,

The thing occurred again and again, and
the mystery was dense as ever. It couldn’t
be foxes, because they almost always kill a
few for the sake of killing, and leave them
lying about. Was it rats? No, there were
no rats, said the rat-catcher who was called
in. But still the disappearances went
on, and morning after morning fifteen or

little, fuzzy activities, all agog to examine the twenty of yesterday’s chicks were not to be

world. Now there were but three, and not a found ; and the door of their coop was

scrap or a fragment of fluff left to suggest opened, or knocked down. If it were a

what had happened. human thief, why did he leave any at

ANIMAL ACTUALITIES.

LISTENING.

all ? And besides, a man entering the yard
at night would have been pounced on by the
dogs at once. At last, in desperation, a
friend suggested that perhaps the sheepdog
knew something of it. But that was alto¬
gether unlikely—one had only to glance at
him to see it. He was always a kindly
guardian—almost a parent to the mother¬
less chicks. He was chained up just
outside the farm-house door all day, with
a brood of happy chicks ever in his
kennel and his food - pan, and, indeed,
hopping all over him fearlessly, and nothing
they could do ruffled his placid temper or
changed his benevolent aspect. So the
mystery continued, and was deep as ever.

Till one morning it happened to be neces¬
sary for Mr. Williams to rise just after dawn,
and as he did so he looked out of his bed¬
room window. There stood Satan, the sheep¬

107

dog, listening intently at the house door. As
he listened and his master watched, there
presently came along a batch of young chicks.
Plainly the door of their coop had been
opened again, and they had been let out.
And then Mr. Williams gasped. For straight¬
way the dog turned and calmly began snapping
up the chicks, bolting them whole, as Mr.
Williams expresses it, “ like oysters.” He
had thus disposed of eight or nine in rapid
succession, when Mr. Williams made a noise
at the window, and the dog instantly fled.

That day Mr. Williams took particular care
to move the chickens near him as he lay by
his kennel, and to watch. But, no—the
cunning rascal would take no notice of them
at all. They ran and tumbled all about
him, but he let them run. He was a hypo¬
crite, consummate and proved, and he left
the farm that evening.

THOUSAND years ago there
lived a King and a Queen.
They had only one daughter,
who was dearer to them than
all the world. Now, when the
King of France sent to their
Court to request the hand of the Princess,
neither father nor mother would part from
their beloved daughter, and they said to the
Ambassador : “ She is still too young ! ”

But as the girl became every day more
beautiful, the next year the King of Spain’s
Ambassador appeared to request the girl’s
hand for his Sovereign. And again the
parents answered : “ She is still too young ! ”
Both the Kings were very angry at this
refusal, and resolved to revenge themselves
on the poor Princess.

As they were not able themselves to carry
out their wicked resolve, they summoned a
Magician and said to him : “ You must
devise for us some charm to be used against
the Princess—and the worse it is the greater
shall be your reward ! ”

With the words, “ In one month your wish
shall be fulfilled ! ” the Magician departed.

Before the four weeks were over, he
appeared again in the castle of the King of
Spain.

“Your Majesty, here is the charm !” he
cried. “ Give her this ring as a present, and
when. she has worn it on her finger for
four-and-twenty hours, you shall see the
effect! ”

Now the two Kings consulted together as
to how they should get the ring to the
Princess. For they were no longer friendly
with her parents, who would, consequently,
become suspicious of any present sent by
them. What was to be done ?

“ I have it! I have it ! ” the King of
Spain cried, suddenly.

Then he disguised himself as a goldsmith,
set out on a journey, and took up his position
just opposite the palace where the Princess
lived. The Queen noticed him from her
window, and as she happened at that time
to be wanting to buy some jewellery she sent
for him. After she had bought from the
stranger various bracelets, chains, and ear¬
rings, she said to her daughter :—

“ And you will not choose anything among

THE COTTON-WOOL PRINCESS.

109

all these fine things for yourself, little
daughter ? ”

Then the Princess answered, “ I see
nothing especially beautiful among them.”

Then the disguised King took the ring
out of its case, which he had up to the pre¬
sent kept hidden, made it sparkle in the
sun, and said : “Your Majesty, here is still
a very rare jewel ; this ring has not its equal
in the world for beauty.

And it does not please
you ? ”

“ Oh, how splendid !

Oh, how beautifully it
sparkles and gleams ! ”
cried the Princess, en¬
tranced. “ How much
does it cost ? ”

“ The ring has no
price ; I shall be con¬
tented with whatever you
give me for it.”

Then a great sum of
money was paid to him,
and he went his way. The
Princess put the ring on
her linger, and could not
turn her eyes away from
it, so charmed was she
with its brilliancy. But
four - and - twenty hours
had not passed—it was
just evening — when the
poor girl uttered a terrible
cry of anguish.

“ Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! ”
sounded through the
whole palace.

The King, the Queen,
and all the ladies of the
Court ran, white with
terror, and with candles
in their hands, to see
what had happened.

“ Take away your candles ! Take them
away ! Take them away ! ” cried the
Princess, beside herself with despair. “ Do you
not see that I have turned into cotton-wool ? ”

And her body had, indeed, suddenly
changed into cotton-wool. The King and
Queen were inconsolable at this terrible mis¬
fortune, and they at once summoned the
wisest men of the kingdom to consult with
them as to what was to be done in this
extremity.

“Your Majesties,” the councillors con¬
cluded, after long deliberation, “have it pro¬
claimed in all countries that whoever restores
your daughter may wed her.”

And then messengers with drums and
trumpets went round the whole kingdom
and far beyond it, and proclaimed

“ He who restores the Princess to health
may become the King’s son-in-law.”

About this time there lived in a small
town the son of a shoemaker. There was
great want in his father’s house, and one
day, when not even a crust of bread re¬

mained, and both would have had to die of
hunger, the son said, “ Father, give me your
blessing; I will go out into the world to seek
my fortune.”

“ May Heaven be gracious to you, my
son ! ” said the father, and the youth took
his staff and set out on his journey.

He had already left the fields of his native
district far behind him when he met a band
of rough boys, who were making a fearful
uproar and throwing stones at a toad to
kill it.

“ What harm has the poor animal done
you ? Is it not as much God’s creature as
you are ?' Let it live! ” he exclaimed,

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

indignantly. But when he saw that the
hard-hearted fellows paid no attention to his
words and did not desist from their intention,
he rushed angrily at them and gave one
a sound box on the ears, and another a
mighty punch in his ribs. The boys
scattered in a tumult, and the toad quickly
used the opportunity to slip into a hole in
the wall.

Then the youth went farther and farther
on his way. Suddenly the sound of trumpets
and the roll of drums came to his ear. And
listen ! Is not some proclamation being
made ? He listened attentively and dis¬
tinctly heard the words : “ He who restores
the Princess to health may become the
King s son-in-law ! ”

“ What is the matter with her ? ” he asked
a passer-by.

“ Don’t you know? She has turned into
cotton-wool.”

He thanked his informant and continued
his travels. Now, by the time night had
sunk upon the earth, he had come to a great
desert, and he determined to lay himself
down to sleep. But how terrified he was
when, on turning his head to look once again
at the way he had come,
he saw a tall, beautiful
woman standing at his
side.

He was about to spring
quickly away when she
said, “ Do not be afraid
of me. I am a Fairy,
and have come to thank
you.”

“ To thank me ? And
what for ? ” the youth
asked, in confusion.

“You saved my life !

My fate ordains that I
shall be a toad by day
and a fairy by night.

Now, I am at your
service

“Good Fairy,” then
said the youth, “ I have
just heard of a Princess
who has turned into
cotton - wool, and who¬
ever heals her may
become her husband.

Teach me how to restore
her to health. That is
my most ardent wish ! ”

Then the Fairy said,

“ Take this sword in
your hand and walk

straight on until you come to a dense
forest, full of snakes and wild animals.
However, you must not be afraid of
them, but must bravely continue your
journey until you stand in front of the
Magician’s palace. As soon as you have
reached it, knock three times at the great
gate . . . And she described to him
fully what he was to do.

“ If you ever need my help, come to this
place at this same hour, and you will find me
here ! ” and giving him her white hand in
farewell, she disappeared before the youth
could open his mouth to thank her.

Without pausing to consider, the cobbler’s
son set out and went straight on, according
to his instructions. He had already gone a
good way when his path led him into a
dark forest, into the midst of wild animals.
That was awful! They filled the air with
fearful roars, gnashed their teeth blood¬
thirstily, and hungrily opened their jaws.
Though the poor youth’s heart thumped, he
went straight on, making as if he did
not notice them. At last he reached the
Magician’s palace, and knocked three times
at the great gate.

“the magician, in a great fury, rushed out.”

THE COTTON-WOOL PRINCESS .

Then a voice came from the interior of the
castle: “ Woe to you, rash stranger, who
have the boldness to come to me ! What is
your wish ? ”

“ If you really are the Magician, come out
and fight with me ! ” cried the youth.

The Magician, in a great fury at this
audacity, rushed out, armed to the teeth, to
accept the challenge. But as soon as he
saw the sword in the youth’s hand, he broke
out into pitiable lamentation, and, sinking
trembling on to his knees, cried : —

“ Oh, woe to me, unfortunate creature that
I am ! At least spare my life ! ”

Then the youth said: “ If you will re¬
lease the Princess from the spell your life
shall be spared.”

Then the Magi¬
cian took a ring
out of his pocket
and said: “Take
this ring and put
it on the little
finger of her left
hand and she
shall be well
again.”

Not a little re¬
joiced at the suc¬
cess of his journey,
the youth hastened
to the King and
asked, just to
satisfy himself of
the truth of what
he had been told :

“ Your Majesty, is
it true that he
who restores the
Princess to health
will be your son-
in-law?”

“It is verily
true ! ” the anxious
King assured him.

“ Well then, I am ready to accomplish the
task ! ”

Then the poor Princess was brought in,
and all the ladies of the Court, as well as
the servants, stood round her to witness the
miracle.

But no sooner had she put the ring on her
little finger than she burst into bright flame
and stood there, uttering heartrending cries.
Everything was plunged into confusion, and
the horrified youth seized the opportunity of
escaping from the scene of the disaster as
fast as his legs would carry him. His one
wish was to get to the Fairy, and he did not

stop running until he had come to the place
where he had seen her the first time.

“Fairy, where are you ?” he cried, all in a
tremble.

“ I am at your service,” was the answer.

Then he told the Fairy of the misfortune
which had happened to him.

“ You have allowed yourself to be de¬
ceived ! Take this dagger and go again to
the Magician. See that he does not fool
you this time ! ”

Then she gave him all sorts of good advice
for his dangerous journey and bestowed on
him her blessing. Arrived at the great gate
of the palace, he knocked three times. Then
the Magician cried, as before : “ Woe to you,

bold stranger 1
W hat is your
wish ? ”

“If you are
really the Magi¬
cian, you are to
fight with me ! ”
The Magician,
armed to his teeth,
came rushing out,
in a rage. But
when he saw the
dagger he sank
trembling on his-
knees, and begged
piteously : “ Oh,

spare my life.”

“ Good-for-noth¬
ing Magician!”
the youth cried,
angrily ; “ you

have deceived
me ! Now I will
keep you in
chains until
the Princess is
freed from the
spell ! ”

Then he put
him in chains, stuck the dagger into the
earth, and fastened the chain to it so that
the Magician could not move.

“ You are mightier than I ! Now I realize
it! ” cried the enchained Magician, gnash¬
ing his teeth. “Take the goldsmith’s ring
from the Princess’s finger, and she will be
released from the spell.”

Not until the youth had learnt that the
Princess had escaped with only a few burns
on her hands, owing to the promptness of
the bystanders in extinguishing the flames,
did he summon up enough courage to appear
before the King again.

THE POOR PRINCESS BURST INTO FLAME.

112

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ Your Majesty, I implore your pardon ! ”
he said. “ The treacherous Magician, not I,
was the cause of the disaster. Now I have
completely overcome him, and my remedy
will succeed. I have only to draw the gold¬
smith’s ring from your daughter’s finger
and she will be all right again.”

And so it happened. As soon as the ring
was taken off, the Princess at once changed
back to what she had been before. But who
would believe it to be possible ? Her tongue,
eyes, and ears were missing; they had been
consumed by the flames ! The youth’s per¬
plexity at this new disaster was indescribable.
Again he applied to his guardian Fairy for
help.

“ You have let him make a fool of you a
second time ! ” she said, again giving him
advice, to help him towards the fulfilment
of his wish of becoming the King’s son-
in-law.

When he came to the Magician he shouted
at him: “You miserable deceiver! Now
my patience is at an end ! But eye for eye,
tongue for tongue, ear for ear ! ”

With these words he seized
the Magician to strangle
him.

But the latter cried, in the
utmost peril of death : “ Have
mercy! Have mercy ! Let
me live ! Go to my sisters,
who live a little farther back
than this.”

Then he gave him the neces¬
sary directions so that he might
find the way there without
delay, and also the magic word
which he had to pronounce at
the gate. After some hours he
came to the gate of a palace,
which was in every respect like
that of the Magician. He
knocked, and in answer to the
question, “ Who are you, and
what do you want here ? ” He
answered, “I want the little
gold horn.”

“ I perceive that my brother
has sent you to me. What
does he want of me ? ”

“ He wants a little piece of
red cloth; he has torn a hole
in his cloak.”

“ Here’s a piece, and now
get you gone from here ! ” a
woman in the palace cried
angrily, at the same time throw¬
ing into his opened hands a

little piece of red cloth, which she had cut
in the shape of a tongue.

He journeyed on for several hours, and at
last came to the foot of a high mountain. On
a spur of rock was a castle, which looked
exactly like that of the Magician. Then he
knocked at the great gate, and a voice came
from the interior, saying, “ Who are you, and
what is your desire ? ”

“ I want the little gold hand.”

“ That’s all right. I perceive that my
brother has sent you. What does he want
from me ? ”

“ He wants two lentil-grains for soup.”

“ What rubbish ! Here, take them and
make yourself scarce ! ”

Then the owner of the castle threw him
two little lentil-grains, wrapped in a piece of
paper, and noisily closed the window.

At last he came to a wide plain, in the
middle of which a castle exactly like the
Magician’s was built. When he knocked he
was asked what he wanted, and answered :
“ I want the little gold foot.”

THE OWNER OF THE CASTLE THREW
HIM TWO LITTLE LENTIL-GRAINS.”

THE COTTON-WOOL PRINCESS.

“ Ah ! my brother has sent you to me !
And what does he wish from me ? ”

“ He wishes you to send him two snails
for his supper.”

“ Here they are, but now leave me in
peace ! ” a woman called out, ungraciously,
from the window, at the same time throwing
him the two snails he desired.

Now the youth returned with the things
he had collected to the Magician, and said :
“ Here I bring you what you wished for.”

Then the Magician gave him all the
necessary instructions as to the use of the
three things. But when the youth turned
his back to go away, the captive cried,
imploringly, “And you are going to leave
me lying here ? ”

“ It would be no more than you deserve.
However, I will release you. But woe
betide you if you have deceived me again.”

After the youth had released the Magician
from his chains, he hurried away to appear
before the Princess.

Opening her mouth, he put in it the little
piece of red stuff which he had brought
with him, and she at once had a tongue.

But the first words which came from her
mouth were : “ Miserable cobbler! Out of
my sight! Begone ! ”

The poor youth was motionless with pain¬
ful amazement, and said to himself: “This
is once more the work of the faithless
Magician.”

But he would not let this bitter ingratitude
prevent him from completing the good work.
Then, taking the two little lentil-grains, he
put them into the blind pupils of the girl’s
eyes, and at once she was able to see as
before. But no sooner had she turned her
eyes upon him than she covered her face
with her hands and cried, scornfully, “Oh,
how ugly mankind is ! How horribly ugly ! ”

The poor youth’s courage nearly vanished,
and again he said to himself, “ The worthless
Magician has done this for me ! ”

But he would not allow himself to be put
out. Taking the empty snail-shells from his
pocket, he put them very skilfully where the
girl’s ears had once been, and behold ! the
Princess had back again her sweet little
ears.

Then the youth turned to the King and
said, “ Your Majesty, now I am your son-in-
law ! ”

But when the Princess heard these words
she began to weep like a spoilt child, sobbing,
“ He called me a witch ! Pie said I was
an old witch ! ”

That was too much ingratitude for the
poor youth. Without saying a word, he
hurriedly left the castle, to seek out his
Fairy.

“Fairy, where are you?” he cried, still
trembling with anger and vexation.

“ I am at your service.”

Then he told her how shamefully he had
been treated by the Princess, who was now
restored to health.

The Fairy said, laughing : “ You probably
forgot to take the Magician’s other ring from
her little finger ? ”

“ Oh, dear ! I did not think of that in
my confusion,” exclaimed the youth, seizing
his head between his two hands in mingled
terror and shame.

“Now hasten and repair the mistake! ”
advised the Fairy.

Sooner than he had thought possible, he
was standing in front of the Princess and
drew the evil ring from her little finger.
Then a lovely smile spread over her beauti¬
ful features, and she thanked him so sweetly
and kindly that he became red with .em¬
barrassment.

Then the King said, solemnly : “ This is
your husband.”

And the youth and the Princess embraced
one another in the sight of all, and a few
days afterwards the wedding was cele¬
brated.

Vol. xvii.—15

A Funeral at Sea.

By j. h.

IFE on board one of the large
liners which run from South¬
ampton or London to the
Cape is almost ideal. After
the first week of the trip, calm
seas and glorious sunshine are
experienced, and on board we are free from
the rush of business life, and can laze away
our time to our heart’s content. No letters
to be looked through, no clients or customers
to interview, and no morning paper to read.
If that is not a holiday, what is ?

For certain reasons, the first part of the
voyage is not so enjoyable to some as to
others, for the Bay of Biscay has a very bad
name, and although it may be a bugbear
whose growl is often worse than its bite,
nevertheless, it sometimes acts up to its
reputation. However, when Madeira is
past, all thoughts of mal de mer are put
aside, everyone begins to take a fresh
interest in the trip, and things in general
begin to “ brighten up.” Deck chairs are
placed in the shady parts of the deck, and we
recline in comfort and talk scandal (for
scandal is talked even on board), read novels
and smoke.

Soon after “ The Canaries” are left behind,
however, a committee is formed, and a
programme of sports
and entertainments
drawn up, to enliven
the remaining fort¬
night of the voyage.

There are cricket for
the more energetic,
bull - board, quoits,
sports, concerts,
dances (including a
fancy dress ball), etc.,
in which everyone
takes part, and a
good time is provided
for one and all.

But life at sea, as
on land, is not all
sunshine and happi¬
ness, and I shall ever
remember a certain
lovely hot morning
in December, when
we were still nine or
ten days’ sail from From a]

Barker.

Cape Town, and those of us who cared for
the luxury were having beef-tea and biscuits
in the saloon, when the captain’s clerk came
in, and said : “ There’s to be a funeral this
afternoon at four o’clock,”

I can never forget the change that came
over the company. It seemed as though a
thunderbolt had fallen. A few minutes
before we had all been talking of the various
amusements which were to take place during
the day, and no thought, except of pleasure,
had entered our minds.

“Who is dead?” we asked, and were told
that a steerage passenger had died of con¬
sumption.

There were no games that day : it seemed
as though the life on board had completely
changed.

At four o’clock nearly all the passengers
came on deck to attend the funeral. The
ceremony was to take place in the “after¬
well” of the vessel, the lower deck being
kept for the officers and men who were to
take part in the service. The “gangway”
was taken down, everything prepared, the
engines slowed down, and the body was
borne out on to the deck by the “ bosun ”
and three of his men, and placed near the
side of the vessel.

BRINGING THE KOpY ON DECK,

[ Photograph.

A FUNERAL AT SEA.

From a] during the burial service.

At sea the body is sewn up in a canvas
sack, which is heavily weighted at the foot,
and this is laid on a “ coaming ” (apart of
one of the hatches), which takes the place
of a bier. The whole is covered with a
Union Jack, which is fastened to the four
corners of the “ coaming,” so that when
the time comes to commit the body to
the deep the one end of the “ coaming ”
is raised and the body slips off into the
water, leaving the flag in its place.

The captain and
first officer read the
burial service between
them, the other
officers and men join¬
ing in the responses.

Never have I heard
the service read more
impressively than it
was that December
day, and during parts
of the reading there
were few dry eyes to
be seen amongst the
passengers. The
beautiful words are
impressive at any
time, but at sea their
beauty is magnified
a hundredfold.

A few minutes after
the service had com¬
menced, at a signal
from the first officer,

the engines were
stopped altogether,
and then there was
absolute stillness and
silence, broken only
by the voice of the
captain and the ripple
of the water as the
ship still moved along
her way.

“We, therefore,
commit her body to
the deep ...” and
at these words the
men who had stood
by the “ coaming ”
on which the body
rested raised it gently
up, there was a dull
splash, and the body
sank to rise no more,
until the great day
[Photograph. when the deep shall
give up her dead.

Everything was done in the most reverent
spirit, and when at the close of the service
the engines were again put full steam ahead,
the “ gangway ” closed up, and the ordinary
routine of ship-life resumed, I could not help
thinking that there is something very grand
in having the profound sea for a tomb. God
seemed nearer in that solitude than in the
crowded city.

As I was going down to my cabin ^
little later I met one of the officers, who

From a] ALLOWING THE BODY to slide into the SEA. [ Photograph .

THE STRAND MAGAZINE,.

116

From a] showing the flag left behind, after the body has gone. [ Photograph .

said, “Not been taking the funeral, have
you?”

“ Yes,” I replied.

“Well, it’s your own look-out, and you
have to take the risk yourself.”

A little farther down I came across one
of the engineers, and he asked me the same
question. I told him I had taken a few

snap-shots, and he
said, “You have?
I wouldn’t have done
it for anything you
could have given me.”

“ Why not ? ” I
asked.

“ Don’t you know
that to photograph a
funeral on board ship
is about the most
unlucky thing you
could do ? Anyhow,
it’s your own risk, so
it does not matter to
me. Still, I would
not take such a risk
myself.”

Not being super¬
stitious, no harm
accrued from my
daring.

Gradually we got
back again to our
usual life on board, and to our games and
frivolities; and by a few, perhaps, the solemn
act of burying the dead had been forgotten
ere we gained our first view of the beautiful
Table Bay, with the picturesque town and
grand Table Mountain in the background,
but on some of us, I feel sure, it will have a
lasting influence.

From «)

AT THE CLOSE OF THE SERVICE.

I Photograph.

Curiosities*

[PVe shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section , and to pay for such as are accepted .]

almost incredible positions assumed by the limbs
and body under such circumstances. The four
girls on the left apparently led off, and seem
to be quite complacently perched in mid-air, but the
trio on the right are decidedly unsteady in their
alignment, whilst the young maid on the extreme
flank is quite distressed in her uncertainty. The
photograph was taken at the chateau of the Marquise
de San Carlos, near Paris, by Miss Lilian Noble, of
Slissinghurst Grange, Cranbrook.

A SAGACIOUS HORSE.

The accompanying photo, depicts an incident
which, says the sender, Mr. Herbert S. Sellars, of
25, Iiertslet Road, Seven Sisters Road, Holloway,
N., may be witnessed any afternoon at Torton, near
Gosport, Plants. “ Tom,” the subject of the photo.,
is the property of a dairyman well known in that
district. Whilst going the rounds, certain lady cus¬
tomers have been in the habit of giving the horse
bread. Preceding his master, and arriving at the
houses of these good friends, he draws his float up on
to the pavement, and then knocks at the door by
raising the knocker with his mouth, and then letting
it drop again. This he continues to do till the door
is opened, when he receives his well-earned reward.

A GOOD JUMP.

Here we have a group of merry - faced school¬
girls indulging in a jump arm-in-arm together, and
the snap-shot gives us a very vivid idea of the

From a Photo, by R. W. Fisk , Rickmansworth.

FRUIT AND BLOSSOM
TOGETHER.

The photograph here reproduced
shows a very unique freak of Nature.
It represents an apple tree that was
growing on October 12th last in Mr.
Blake’s garden, the Metropolitan
Station - master at Rickmansworth
(Herts), and its point of interest
lies in the fact that although the
tree is still in full blossom there are
several ripe apples upon it at the
same time. There were several dozen
other similar trees of the same age
in the garden, but this is the only
one that bore blossom and fruit at
the same time. The photograph was
sent in by Mr. R. W. Fisk, of Rick¬
mansworth.

* Copyright, 1899, b Y George Newnes, Limited.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

With the Soudan reconquered and Khartoum
itself fast reassuming that civilizing influence amongst
the tribes of the Upper Nile that General Gordon
sacrificed so much to accomplish, added interest has
been taken in Gordon relics of late. The accom¬
panying photograph represents a book that was
printed for the General in Khartoum, and was
highly treasured by him on account of it being the
first book ever printed there. The relic is now in
the safe keeping of the British Museum, where it is
open to public inspection. The text,
by the way, is in Arabic.

It is well known that experiments with paper and
a pair of scissors are often productive of the most
wonderful results, but the design reproduced in the
accompanying photograph is perhaps one of the most
remarkable obtained under such conditions, and it has
the additional novelty of having been cut out by an old
lady of feeble sight. The original paper design was
sent to us by Mr. M. A. Holmes, of 3, Alma Road,
Canonbury, and the reproduction presented in these
pages is from a photograph of it taken by us.

WHAT WHEAT CAN DO.

Amongst the curiosities of The
Strand a few months ago we gave
an illustration of a section of a board
taken from a wheat trough, worn
by wheat passing ever it. Here is a
photograph, sent in by Mr. Byron Har¬
man, of the Tacoma Grain Company,
Washington, showing a steel-plate, 4ft.
square and iin. thick, taken from a
large elevator at Tacoma, that has
actually had holes worn through it by-
wheat continually falling on it from a
height of 4ft.

CURIOSITIES.

GIGANTIC BEETROOTS.

AN INGENIOUS EXTINGUISHER.

Mr. I). H. W. Broad, of 18, Beatrice Road, Stroud
Green, N., the sender of this photograph, writes that
it represents a curious piece of old ironwork which
has recently come into his possession. It slips, he
says, on to a candle, the spike in the middle going
into the wax at any place you like to adjust it. The
object is apparently to automatically extinguish the
candle, should the sleeper leave it alight on retiring.
When the wax is burnt away the spike is released,
thus bringing down the extinguisher. The candle
in the photo, is standing in an old brass tinder-box.

alongside it, and it is estimated that it will tip the
beam at over 20olb. Beetroots of this size are
naturally not quite so tender as the smaller kind one
is accustomed to receive at table ; in fact, in order
to slice them it might lie necessary to use an axe or
a circular saw. Mr. Boker, who grew these, says
that there need be no fear of any denudation of
our forests, as he can raise a good-sized one under¬
ground in the course of a season.

WHAT IS IT?

This little snap-shot requires quite an amount of
scrutiny to decipher. It has been sent in by Mr.
Andrew E. Pearson, of 8, Cobden Road, Newington,
Edinburgh, who took it on the Gareloch, at Shandon,
in August last. It represents a sailing yacht travel¬
ling from left to right, and throwing shadows so
remarkably well defined that if the picture be
turned upside down it appears almost the same.
When turned end on—as it now stands—it might be
mistaken for a bat or a butterfly, or even a moth.
Being reversed again, curiously enough it still retains
the same likeness.

From a Photo, by Ileitis efc Sons.

A HUMAN VIOLIN.

That music hath charms may undoubtedly be true,
but it is difficult to understand how one could enjoy
the harmony, however dulcet it might be, evolved
from such an instrument as is shown in the above
photograph. It consists of the major portion of a
human skull, over which is stretched a sheet of sheep’s
skin for sounding-board ; portion of the leg-bone as
key-board, with bits of the small bones of the arms
for keys. This curiosity belongs to Mr. A. I. J.
Harwood, of 87, Park Street, Camden Town,
N.W., and was sent to him as a native product
from Durban, South Africa, on July 5th last, by
Mr. C. Wilson,

This photograph, sent in by Mr. H. Clifford, of
2 3^j 5 2rR l Street, Brooklyn, New York, shows how
they grow beetroots in California. The largest of the
two roots displayed is over 5ft. in height, as may be
estimated by comparison with the young lady standing

120

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

A SURPRISING EFFECT.

Certainly a very unlooked-for effect is to be found
in the photograph of the lady’s face here reproduced,
which has been sent in by Mr. Edward Duxfield, of
Eton House, Basford, Stoke-on-Trent. On holding
the picture upside down another face may be distinctly
traced, whose presence is purely the result of certain
combined shaded effects. The mouth is the same in
both faces. The photo, was taken in the garden

about mid-day. *-

A NOVELTY IN CAMERAS.

The interest attached to the next photograph we
reproduce does not lie in the subject illustrated, but
in the fact that it was taken by a very primitive sort
of camera, made out of an old cigar-box, with a pill-

A TRAIN IN PERSPECTIVE.

A very curious study in perspective is afforded by
our next photograph, which was taken by Mr. E.
Ford, of Bridge Place, Bexley, Kent, whilst leaning out
of a railway carriage window in the rear part of a train.
A curve was being rounded just at the moment the
snap-shot was taken, and in the distance the locomo¬
tives may be seen just about to pass over one of the
newly built granite bridges in Cornwall. Owing to the
hilly nature of the country, all the main line trains are
drawn by two engines. Mr. Ford says that they
were travelling at the rate of about thirty miles when
he took the photograph.

box pierced at one end by a pin prick instead of a lens,
the lid of the pill-box being retained as the cap. At
the back of the camera was an arrangement for the
reception of the plate, and the whole was enveloped

in cloth. This novel apparatus was made by the
thirteen-year-old son of Mrs. C. L. Taylor, of 40,
Nichols Street, West Bromwich, who forwarded it
for our inspection.

“‘JOHN,’ SHE CRIED, PASSIONATELY, ‘I WILL NEVER ABANDON YOU!’”

{See page 133.)

The

Vol. xvii.

Strand Magazine.

FEBRUARY, 1899.

No. 98.

Round the Fire.

IX.-THE STORY OF THE JEW’S BREAST-PLATE.
By A. Conan Doyle.

Y particular friend Ward Morti¬
mer was one of the best men
of his day at everything con¬
nected with Oriental arch¬
aeology. He had written
largely upon the subject, he
had lived two years in a tomb at Thebes,
while he had excavated in the Valley of the
Kings, and finally he had created a consider¬
able sensation by his exhumation of the
alleged mummy of Cleopatra in the inner
room of the Temple of Horus, at Philae.
With such a record at the age of thirty-one,
it was felt that a considerable career lay
before him, and no one was surprised when
he was elected to the curatorship of the
Belmore Street Museum, which carries with
it the lectureship at the Oriental College, and
an income which has sunk with the fall in
land, but which still remains at that ideal
sum which is large enough to encourage an
investigator, and not so large as to enervate
him.

There was only one reason which made
Ward Mortimer’s position a little difficult at
the Belmore Street Museum, and that was
the extreme eminence of the man whom he
had to succeed. Professor Andreas was a
profound scholar and a man of European
reputation. His lectures were frequented by
students from every part of the world, and
his admirable management of the collection
intrusted to his care was a commonplace in
all learned societies. There was, therefore,
considerable surprise when, at the age of
fifty-five, he suddenly resigned his position
and retired from those duties which had been
both his livelihood and his pleasure. He
and his daughter left the comfortable suite
of rooms which had formed his official
residence in connection with the museum,
and my friend, Mortimer, who was a bachelor,
took up his quarters there.

On hearing of Mortimer’s appointment

VoJ. xvii.—16

Professor Andreas had written him a very
kindly and flattering congratulatory letter, but
I was actually present at their first meeting, and
I went with Mortimer round the museum when
the Professor showed us the admirable collec¬
tion which he had cherished so long. The Pro¬
fessor’s beautiful daughter and a young man,
Captain Wilson, who was, as I understood,
soon to be her husband, accompanied us in
our inspection. There were fifteen rooms in all,
but the Babylonian, the Syrian, and the central
hall, which contained the Jewish and Egyptian
collection, were the finest of all. Professor
Andreas was a quiet, dry, elderly man, with a
clean-shaven face and an impassive manner,
but his dark eyes sparkled and his features
quickened into enthusiastic life as he pointed
out to us the rarity and the beauty of some
of his specimens. His hand lingered so
fondly over them, that one could read his
pride in them and the grief in his heart now
that they were passing from his care into that
of another.

He had shown us in turn his mummies,
his papyri, his rare scarabs, his inscriptions,
his Jewish relics, and his duplication of the
famous seven-branched candlestick of the
Temple, which was brought to Rome by
Titus, and which is supposed by some to be
lying at this instant in the bed of the Tiber.
Then he approached a case which stood in
the very centre of the hall, and he looked
down through the glass with reverence in his
attitude and manner.

“ This is no novelty to an expert like your¬
self, Mr. Mortimer,” said he ; “ but I daresay
that your friend, Mr. Jackson, will be
interested to see it.”

Leaning over the case I saw an object,
some five inches square, which consisted of
twelve precious stones in a framework of
gold, with golden hooks at two of the corners.
The stones were all varying in sort and
colour, but they were of the same size,

124

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

Their shapes, arrangement, and gradation of
tint made me think of a box of water-colour
paints. Each stone had some hieroglyphic
scratched upon its surface.

“You have heard, Mr. Jackson, of the
urim and thummim ? ”

I had heard the term, but my idea of its
meaning was exceedingly vague.

“The urim and thummim was a name
given to the jewelled plate which lay upon
the breast of the high priest of the Jews.
They had a very, special feeling of reverence
for it — something of the feeling which an
ancient Roman might have for the Sibylline
books in the Capitol. There are, as you see,
twelve magnificent stones, inscribed with
mystical characters. Counting from the left-
hand top corner, the stones are carnelian,
peridot, emerald, ruby, lapis lazuli, onyx,
sapphire, agate, amethyst, topaz, beryl, and
jasper.”

I was amazed at the variety and beauty of
the stones.

“Has the breast - plate any particular
history ? ” I asked.

“It is of great age and of immense
value,” said Professor Andreas. “ Without

“ ‘ IT IS OF GREAT AGE AND OK IMMENSE VALUE.’
Sftip EKOFESSOH ANDREAS,”

being able to make an absolute assertion, we
have many reasons to think that it is pos¬
sible that it may be the original urim and
thummim of Solomon’s Temple. There is
certainly nothing so fine in any collection in
Europe. My friend, Captain Wilson here,
is a practical authority upon precious stones,
and he would tell you how pure these are.”

Captain Wilson, a man with a dark, hard,
incisive face, was standing beside his fiancee
at the other side of the case.

“ Yes,” said he, curtly, “ I have never
seen finer stones.”

“ And the gold-work is also worthy of

attention. The ancients excelled in-”—

he was apparently about to indicate the
setting of the stones, when Captain Wilson
interrupted him.

“ You will see a finer example of their
gold-work in this candlestick,” said he,
turning to another table, and we all joined
him in his admiration of its embossed stem
and delicately ornamented branches. Alto¬
gether it was an interesting and a novel
experience to have objects of such rarity
explained by so great an expert ; and when,
finally, Professor Andreas finished our in¬
spection by formally
handing over the pre¬
cious collection to the
care of my friend, I
could not help pitying
him and envying his
successor whose life was
to pass in so pleasant
a duty. Within a week,
Ward Mortimer was
duly installed in his
new set of rooms, and
had become the auto¬
crat of the Bel more
Street Museum.

About a fortnight
afterwards my friend
gave a small dinner to
half-a-dozen bachelor
friends to celebrate his
promotion. When his
guests were departing
he pulled my sleeve
and signalled to me
that he wished me to
remain.

“ You have only a
few hundred yards to
go,” said he - I was
living in chambers in
the Albany. “You
may as well stay and

ROUND THE FIRE .

125

have a quiet cigar with me. 1 very much
want your advice.”

I relapsed into an arm-chair and lit one
of his excellent Matronas. When he had
returned from seeing the last of his guests
out, he drew a letter from his dress-jacket and
sat down opposite to me.

“ This is an anonymous letter which I
received this morning,” said he. “ I want to
read it to you and to have your advice.”

“ You are very welcome to it for what it is
worth.”

“ This is how the note runs : ‘ Sir,—I
should strongly advise you to keep a very
careful watch over the many valuable things
which are committed to your charge. I do
not think that the present system of a single
watchman is sufficient. Be upon your guard,
or an irreparable misfortune may occur.’ ”

“Is that all?”

“ Yes, that is all.”

“Well,” said I, “it is at
least obvious that it was
written by one of the limited
number of people who are
aware that you have only one
watchman at night.”

Ward Mortimer handed
me the note, with a curious
smile. “ Have you an eye
for handwriting ? ” said he.

“Now, look at this!” He
put another letter in front
of me. “ Look at the c in
‘congratulate’ and the c in
‘committed.’ Look at the
capital I. Look at the trick
of putting in a dash instead
of a stop ! ”

“ They are undoubtedly
from the same hand—with
some attempt at disguise in
the case of this first one.”

“The second,” said Ward
Mortimer, “ is the letter of
congratulation which was
written to me by Professor
Andreas upon my obtaining
my appointment.”

I stared at him in amaze¬
ment. Then I turned over the letter in my
hand, and there, sure enough, was “ Martin
Andreas ” signed upon the other side. There
could be no doubt, in the mind of anyone
who had the slightest knowledge of the
science of graphology, that the Professor
had written an anonymous letter, warning his
successor against thieves. It was inexplicable,
but it was certain, •

“ Why should he do it ? ” I asked.

“ Precisely what I should wish to ask you.
If he had any such misgivings, why could he
not come and tell me direct ? ”

“ Will you speak to him about it ? ”

“ There again I am in doubt. He might
choose to deny that he wrote it.”

“ At any rate,” said I, “ this warning is
meant in a friendly spirit, and I should
certainly act upon it. Are the present pre¬
cautions enough to insure you against
robbery ? ”

“ I should have thought so. The public
are only admitted from ten till five, and there
is a guardian to every two rooms. He stands
at the door between them, and so commands
them both.”

“ But at night?”

“ When the public are gone, we at once

put up the great iron shutters, which aie
absolutely burglar-proof. The watchman is
a capable fellow. He sits in the lodge, but
he walks round every three hours. We keep
one electric light burning in each room all
night.”

“ It is difficult to suggest anything more—
short of keeping your day watchers all night.”

“We could not afford that.”

“this warning is meant in a friendly spirit."

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

126

“At least, I should communicate with the
police, and have a special constable put on
outside in Belmore Street,” said I. “ As to
the letter, if the writer wishes to be anony¬
mous, I think he has a right to remain so.
We must trust to the future to show some
reason for the curious course which he has
adopted.”

So we dismissed the subject, but all that
night after my return to my chambers I was
puzzling my brain as to what possible motive
Professor Andreas could have for writing an
anonymous warning letter to his successor—
for that the writing was his was as certain to
me as if I had seen him actually doing it.
He foresaw some danger to the collection.
Was it because he foresaw it that he aban¬
doned his charge of it ? But if so, why
should he hesitate to warn Mortimer in
his own name ? I puzzled and puzzled
until at last I fell into a troubled sleep,
which carried me beyond my usual hour of
rising.

I was aroused in a singular and effective
method, for about nine o’clock my friend
Mortimer rushed into my room with an
expression of consternation upon his face.
He was usually one of the most tidy men of
my acquaintance, but now his collar was
undone at one end, his tie was flying, and
his hat at the back of his head. I read his
whole story in his frantic eyes.

“The museum has been robbed!” I
cried, springing up in bed.

“ I fear so ! Those jewels ! The jewels
of the urim and thummim ! ” he gasped, for
he was out of breath with running. “ I’m
going on to the police-station. Come to
the museum as soon as you can, Jackson !
Good-bye ! ” He rushed distractedly out of
the room, and I heard him clatter down
the stairs.

I was not long in following his directions,
but I found when I arrived that he had
already returned with a police inspector, and
another elderly gentleman, who proved to be
Mr. Purvis, one of the partners of Morson
and Company, the well-known diamond
merchants. As an expert in stones he was
always prepared to advise the police. They
were grouped round the case in which the
breast-plate of the Jewish priest had been
exposed. The plate had been taken out and
laid upon the glass top of the case, and the
three heads were bent over it.

“ It is obvious that it has been tampered
with,” said Mortimer. “It caught my eye
the moment that I passed through the room
this morning. I examined it yesterday even¬

ing, so that it is certain that this has happened
during the night.”

It was, as he had said, obvious that some¬
one had been at work upon it. The settings
of the uppermost row of four stones—the
cornelian, peridot, emerald, and ruby- were
rough and jagged as if someone had scraped
all round them. The stones were in their
places, but the beautiful gold work which we
had admired only a few days before had been
very clumsily pulled about.

“ It looks to me,” said the police inspector,

“ as if someone had been trying to take out
the stones.”

“ My fear is,” said Mortimer, “ that he
not only tried, but succeeded. I believe
these four stones to be skilful imitations
which have been put in the place of the
originals.”

The same suspicion had evidently been in
the mind of the expert, for he had been care¬
fully examining the four stones with the
aid of a lens. He now submitted them to
several tests, and finally turned cheerfully to
Mortimer.

“ I congratulate you, sir,” said he, heartily.

“ I will pledge my reputation that all four of
these stones are genuine, and of a most un¬
usual degree of purity.”

The colour began to come back to my
poor friend’s frightened face, and he drew a
long breath of relief.

“ Thank God ! ” he cried, “ Then what
in the world did the thief want ? ”

“ Probably he meant to take the stones,
but was interrupted.”

“In that case one would expect him. to
take them out one at a time, but the setting
of each of these has been loosened, and
yet the stones are all here.”

“ It is certainly most extraordinary,” said
the inspector. “I never remember a case
like it. Let us see the watchman.”

The commissionaire was called—a sol¬
dierly, honest-faced man, who seemed as
concerned as Ward Mortimer at the inci¬
dent.

“ No, sir, I never heard a sound,” he
answered, in reply to [the questions of the
inspector. “ I made my rounds four times,
as usual, but I saw nothing suspicious. I’ve
been in my position ten years, but nothing of
the kind has ever occurred before.”

“No thief could have come through the
windows ? ”

“Impossible, sir.”

“ Or passed you at the door ? ”

“ No, sir; I never left my post except
when I walked my rounds,”

ROUND THE FIRE.

127

“ What other openings are there into the
museum ? ”

“ There is the door into Mr. Ward Morti¬
mer’s private rooms.”

“ That is locked at night,” my friend
explained, “ and in order to reach it anyone
from the street would have to open the out¬
side door as well.”

“Your servants ? ”

“Their quarters are entirely separate.”

“ Well, well,” said the inspector, “ this is
certainly very obscure. However, there has
been no harm done, according to Mr.
Purvis.”

“ I will swear that those stones are
genuine.”

“ So that the case appears to be merely

one of malicious damage. But none the less,
I should be very glad to go carefully round
the premises, and to see if we can find any
trace to show us who your visitor may have
been.”

His investigation, which lasted all the
morning, was careful and intelligent, but it
led in the end to nothing. He pointed out
to us that there were two possible entrances
to the museum which we had not considered.
The one was from the cellars by a trap-door

opening in the passage. The other through
a skylight from the lumber-room, overlooking
that very chamber to which the intruder had
penetrated. As neither the cellar nor the
lumber-room could be entered unless the
thief was already within the locked doors,
the matter was not of any practical import¬
ance, and the dust of cellar and attic assured
us that no one had used either one or the
other. Finally, we ended as we began, with¬
out the slightest clue as to how, why, or by
whom the setting of these four jewels had
been tampered with.

There remained one course for Mortimer
to take, and he took it. Leaving the police
to continue their fruitless researches, he
asked me to accompany him that afternoon
in a visit to Professor Andreas.
He took with him the two
letters, and it was his inten¬
tion to openly tax his pre¬
decessor with having written
the anonymous warning, and
to ask him to explain the fact
that he should have antici¬
pated so exactly that which
had actually occurred. The
Professor was living in a small
villa in Upper Norwood, but
we were informed by the
servant that he was away
from home. Seeing our dis¬
appointment, she asked us if
we should like to see Miss
Andreas, and showed us
into the modest drawing¬
room.

I have mentioned inci¬
dentally that the Pro¬
fessor’s daughter was a
very beautiful girl. She
was a blonde, tall and
graceful, with a skin of
that delicate tint which
the French call “ mat,”
the colour of old ivory
or of the lighter petals
of the sulphur rose. 1
was shocked, however, as she entered the
room to see how much she had changed in
the last fortnight. Her young face was
haggard and her bright eyes heavy with
trouble.

“ Father has gone to Scotland,” she
said. “ He seems to be tired, and has had
a good deal to worry him. He only left
us yesterday.”

“ You look a little tired yourself, Miss
Andreas,” said my friend.

“l WILL SWEAR THAT THOSE STONES ARE GENUINE.”

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“No, I am certain that these upper four
are the same which the expert pronounced
to be genuine, for I observed yesterday that
little discoloration on the edge of the
emerald. Since they have not extracted the
upper stones, there is no reason to think that
the lower have been transposed. You say
that you heard nothing, Simpson ? ”

“ No, sir,” the commissionaire answered.
“ But when I made my round after daylight
I had a special look at these stones, and I
saw at once that someone had been meddling
with them. Then I called you, sir, and told
you. I was backwards and forwards all the
night, and 1 never saw a soul or heard a
sound.”

“Come up and have some breakfast with
me,” said Mortimer, and he took me into his
own chambers.

“ Now, what do you think of this, Jackson ? ”
he asked.

“ It is the most objectless, futile, idiotic
business that ever I heard of. It can only
be the work of a monomaniac.”

“ Can you put forward any theory ? ”

corner.

“My dear Jackson,”
he cried, “I am so
delighted that you have
come, for this is a
most inexplicable busi¬
ness.”

“ What has happened,
then ? ”

He waved his hand
towards the case which
contained the breast¬
plate.

“ Look at it,” said
he.

I did so, and could
not restrain a cry of
surprise. The setting
of the middle row of
precious stones had
been profaned in the
same manner as the
upper ones. Of the
twelve jewels, eight had
been now tampered
with in this singular
fashion. The setting
of the lower four was
still neat and smooth.
The others jagged and
irregular.

“ Have the stones
been altered?” I
asked.

“ I have been so anxious about father.”

“ Can you give me his Scotch address? ”

“Yes, he is with his brother, the Rev.
David Andreas, i, Arran Villas, Ardrossan.”

Ward Mortimer made a note of the
address, and we left without saying anything
as to the object of our visit. We found our¬
selves in Bel more Street in the evening in
exactly the same position in which we had
been in the morning. Our only clue was
the Professor’s letter, and my friend had
made up his mind to start for Ardrossan
next day, and to get to the bottom of the
anonymous letter, when a new development
came to alter our plans.

Very early upon the following morning
1 was aroused from my sleep by a tap upon
my bedroom door. It was a messenger with
a note from Mortimer.

“ Do come round,” it said ; “ the matter is
becoming more and more extraordinary.”

When I obeyed his summons 1 found him
pacing excitedly up and down the central
room, while the old soldier who guarded the
premises stood with military stiffness in a

“l NEVER SAW A SOU1. OR HEARD A SOUND.”

ROUND THE FIRE .

129

A curious idea came into my head. “ This
object is a Jewish relic of great antiquity
and sanctity,” said I. “ How about the
anti-Semitic movement ? Could one conceive
that a fanatic of that way of thinking might
desecrate-”

“ No, no, no ! ” cried Mortimer. “ That
will never do ! Such a man might push his
lunacy to the length of destroying a Jewish
relic, but why on earth should he nibble
round every stone so carefully that he can
only do four stones in a night ? We must
have a better solution than that, and we must
find it for ourselves, for I do not think that
our inspector is likely to help us. First of
all, what do you think of Simpson, the
porter ? ”

“ Have you any reason to suspect him ? ”

“ Only that he is the one person on the
premises.”

“ But why should he indulge in such
wanton destruction ? Nothing has been
taken away. He has no motive.”

“Mania?”

“ No, I will swear to his sanity.”

“ Have you any other theory ? ”

“Well, yourself, for example. You are not
a somnambulist, by any chance?”

“Nothing of the sort, I assure you.”

“ Then I give it up.”

“ But I don’t and I have a plan by
which we will make it all clear.”

“ To visit Professor Andreas ? ”

“No, we shall find our solution nearer
than Scotland. I will tell you what we shall
do. You know that skylight which over¬
looks the central hall? We will leave the
electric lights in the hall, and we will keep
watch in the lumber-room, you and I, and
solve the mystery for ourselves. If our
mysterious visitor is doing four stones at a
time, he has four still to do, and there is
every reason to think that he will return to¬
night and complete the job.”

“Excellent!” I cried.

“ We shall keep our own secret, and say
nothing either to the police or to Simpson.
Will you join me ? ”

“ With the utmost pleasure,” said I, and so
it was agreed.

It was ten o’clock that night when I re¬
turned to the Belmo.re Street Museum.
Mortimer was, as I could see, in a state of
suppressed nervous excitement, but it was still
too early to begin our vigil, so we remained
for an hour or so in his chambers, discussing
nil the possibilities of the singular business
which we had met to solve. At last the
roaring stream of hansom cabs and the rush

Vol. xvii.—17

of hurrying feet became lower and more
intermittent as the pleasure-seekers passed
on their way to their stations or their homes.
It was nearly twelve when Mortimer led the
way to the lumber-room which overlooked
the central hall of the museum.

He had visited it during the day, and had
spread some sacking so that we could lie at
our ease, and look straight down into the
museum. The skylight was of unfrosted
glass, but was so covered with dust that it
would be impossible for anyone looking up
from below to detect that he was overlooked.
We cleared a small piece at each corner,
which gave us a complete view of the room
beneath us. In the cold, white light of the
electric lamps everything stood out hard and
clear, and I could see the smallest detail of
the contents of the various cases.

Such a vigil is an excellent lesson, since
one has no choice but to look hard at those
objects which we usually pass with such half¬
hearted interest. Through my little peep¬
hole I employed the hours in studying every
specimen, from the huge mummy-case which
leaned against the wall to those very
jewels which had brought us there, which
.gleamed and sparkled in their glass case
immediately beneath us. There was much
precious gold-work and many valuable stones
scattered through the numerous cases, but
those wonderful twelve which made up the
urim and thummim glowed and burned
with a radiance which far eclipsed the others.
1 studied in turn the tomb-pictures of Sicara,
the friezes from Karnak, the statues of
Memphis, and the inscriptions of Thebes,
but my eyes would always come back to that
wonderful Jewish relic, and my mind to the
singular mystery which surrounded it. I was
lost in the thought of it when my companion
suddenly drew his breath sharply in, and
seized my arm in a convulsive grip. At the
same instant I saw what it was which had
excited him.

I have said that against the wall -on the
right-hand side of the doorway (the right-
hand side as we looked at it, but the left as
one entered)— there stood a large mummy-
case. To our unutterable amazement it was
slowly opening. Gradually, gradually, the lid
was swinging back, and the black slit which
marked the opening was becoming wider and
wider. So gently and carefully was it done
that the movement was quite imperceptible.
Then, as we breathlessly watched it, a white,
thin hand appeared at the opening, pushing
back the painted lid, then another hand, and
finally a face—a face which was familiar to

i 3 °

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

us both, that of Professor Andreas. Stealthily
he slunk out of the mummy-case, like a fox
stealing from its burrow, his head turning
incessantly to left and to right, stepping,
then pausing, then stepping again, the very
image of craft and of caution. Once some
sound in the street struck him motionless,
and he stood listening, with his ear turned,
ready to dart back to the shelter behind him.
Then he crept onwards again upon tiptoe,
very, very softly and slowly, until he had
reached the case in the centre of the room.
Then he took a bunch of keys from his
pocket, unlocked
the case, took out
the Jewish breast¬
plate, and, laying it
upon the glass in
front of him, began
to work upon it
with some sort of
small, glistening
tool. He was so
directly underneath
us that his bent
head covered his
work, but we could
guess from the
movement of his
hand that he was
engaged in finishing
the strange disfigure¬
ment which he had
begun.

I could realize
from the heavy
breathing of my
companion, and the
twitchings of the
hand which still
clutched my wrist,
the furious indigna¬
tion which filled his
heart as he saw
this vandalism in
the very quarter of
all others where he
could least have ex¬
pected it. He, the
very man who a
fortnight before had
reverently bent over
this unique relic,
and who had impressed its antiquity and its
sanctity upon us, was now engaged in this
outrageous profanation. It was impossible,
unthinkable—and yet there, in the white
glare of the electric light beneath us, was that
dark figure with the bent, grey head, and the

twitching elbow. What inhuman hypocrisy,
what hateful depth of malice against his suc¬
cessor must underlie these sinister nocturnal
labours. It was painful to think of and
dreadful to watch. Even I, who had none of
the acute feelings of a virtuoso, could not
bear to look on and see this deliberate
mutilation of so ancient a relic. It was a
relief to me when my companion tugged at
my sleeve as a signal that I was to follow
him as he softly crept out of the room. It
was not until we were within his own quarters
that he opened his lips, and then I saw by
his agitated face
how deep was his
consternation.

“ The abomin¬
able Goth ! ” he
cried. “ Could you
have believed it ? ”

“ It is amazing.”

“ He is a villain
or a lunatic — one
or the other. We
shall very soon see
which. Come with
me, Jackson, and
we shall get to the
bottom of this black
business.”

A door opened
out of the passage
which was the pri¬
vate entrance from
his rooms into the
museum. This he
opened softly with
his key, having first
kicked off his shoes,
an example which
I followed. We
crep.t together
through room after
room, until the large
hall lay before us,
with that dark
figure still stooping
and working at the
central case. With
an advance as
cautious as his own
we closed in upon
him, but softly as
we went we could not take him entirely
unawares. We were still a dozen yards from
him when he looked round with a start, and
uttering a husky cry of terror, ran frantically
down the museum.

“ Simpson ! Simpson !” roared Mortimer,

THIS lll£ Ol'IiNliL) SOFTLY WITH HIS KEY.

ROUND THE FIRE.

and far away down the vista of electric-
lighted doors we saw the stiff figure of the
old soldier suddenly appear. Professor
Andreas saw him also, and stopped running,
with a gesture of despair. At the same
instant we each laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“ Yes, yes, gentlemen,” he panted, “ I will
come with you. To your room, Mr. Ward
Mortimer, if you please ! I feel that I owe
you an explanation.”

My companion’s indignation was so great
that I could see that he dared not trust
himself to reply. We walked on each side
of the old Professor, the astonished com¬
missionaire bringing up the rear. When we
reached the violated case, Mortimer stopped
and examined the breast-plate. Already one
of the stones of the lower row had had its
setting turned back in the same manner as
the others. My friend held it up and
glanced furiously at his prisoner.

“ How could you !” he cried. “How
could you ! ”

“ It is horrible —- horrible ! ” said the
Professor. “ I don’t wonder at your feelings.
Take me to your room.”

“ But this shall not be left exposed! ”
cried Mortimer. He picked the breast¬
plate up and carried it tenderly in his hand,
while I walked beside the Professor, like a
policeman with a malefactor. We passed
into Mortimer’s cham¬
bers, leaving the amazed
old soldier to understand
matters as best he could.

The Professor sat down
in Mortimer’s arm-chair,
and turned so ghastly
a colour that, for the
instant, all our resent¬
ment was changed to
concern. A stiff glass of
brandy brought the life
back to him once more.

“ There, I am better
now ! ” said he. “ These
last few days have been
too much for me. I am
convinced that I could
not stand it any longer.

It is a nightmare •— a
horrible nightmare—that
I should be arrested as a
burglar in what has been
for so long my own
museum. And yet I
cannot blame you. You
could not have done
otherwise. My hope

always was that I should get it all over
before I was detected. This would have
been my last night’s work.”

“ How did you get in ? ” asked Mortimer.

“ By taking a very great liberty with your
private door. But the object justified it.
The object justified everything. You will
not be angry when you know everything—at
least, you will not be angry with me. I had
a key to your side door and also to the
museum door. I did not give them up
when I left. And so you see it was not
difficult for me to let myself into the museum.
I used to come in early before the crowd
had cleared from the street. Then I hid
myself in the mummy-case, and took refuge
there whenever Simpson came round. I
could always hear him coming. I used to
leave in the same way as I came.”

“ You ran a risk.”

“ I had to.”

“ But why ? What on earth was your
object —-you to do a thing like that! ”
Mortimer pointed reproachfully at the plate
which lay before him on the table.

“ I could devise no other means. I
thought and thought, but there was no alter-

MEK POINTED REPROACHFULLY AT THE PLATE.”

* 3 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

native except a hideous public scandal,
and a private sorrow which would have
clouded our lives. I acted for the best,
incredible as it may seem to you, and I
only ask your attention to enable me to
prove it.”

“ I will hear what you have to say before
I take any further steps,” said Mortimer,
grimly.

“ I am determined to hold back nothing,
and to take you both completely into my
confidence. I will leave it to your own
generosity how far you will use the facts
with which I supply you.”

“ We have the essential facts already.”

“And yet you understand nothing. Let
me go back to what passed a few weeks
ago, and I will make it all clear to you.
Believe me that what I say is the absolute
and exact truth.

“You have met the person who calls him¬
self Captain Wilson. I say ‘calls himself’
because I have reason now to believe that
it is not his correct name. It would take
me too long if I were to describe all the
means by which he obtained an introduction
to me and ingratiated himself into my friend¬
ship and the affection of my daughter. He
brought letters from foreign colleagues which
compelled me to show him some attention.
And then, by his own attainments, which are
considerable, he succeeded in making him¬
self a very welcome visitor at my rooms.
When I learned that my daughter’s affections
had been gained by him, I may have thought
it premature, but I certainly was not sur¬
prised, for lie had a charm of manner and of
conversation which would have made him
conspicuous in any society.

“ He was much interested in Oriental an¬
tiquities, and his knowledge of the subject
justified his interest. Often when he spent
the evening with us he would ask permission
to go down into the museum and have an
opportunity of privately inspecting the various
specimens. You can imagine that I, as an
enthusiast, was in sympathy with such a
request, and that I felt no surprise at the
constancy of his visits. After his actual
engagement to Elise, there was hardly an
evening which he did not pass with us, and
an hour or two were generally devoted to the
museum. He had the free run of the place,
and when I have been away for the evening
I had no objection to his doing whatever he
wished here. This state of things was only
terminated by the fact of my resignation of
my official duties and my retirement to
Norwood, where 1 hoped to have the leisure

to write a considerable work which I had
planned.

“ It was immediately after this—within a
week or so—that I first realized the true
nature and character of the man whom I had
so imprudently introduced into my family.
The discovery came to me through letters
from my friends abroad, which showed me
that his introductions to me had been
forgeries. Aghast at the revelation, I
asked myself what motive this man could
originally have had in practising this elabo¬
rate deception upon me. I was too poor a
man for any fortune-hunter to have marked
me down. Why, then, had he come ? I
remembered that some of the most precious
gems in Europe had been under my charge,
and I remembered also the ingenious excuses
by which this man had made himself familiar
with the cases in which they were kept. He
was a rascal who was planning some gigantic
robbery. How could I, without striking my
own daughter, who was infatuated about him,
prevent him from carrying out any plan which
he might have formed ? My device was a
clumsy one, and yet I could think of nothing
more effective. If I had written a letter
under my own name, you would naturally
have turned to me for details which I did
not wish to give. I resorted to an anony¬
mous letter begging you to be upon your
guard.

“ I may tell you that my change from Bel-
more Street to Norwood had not affected the
visits of this man, who had, I believe, a real
and overpowering affection for my daughter.
As to her, I could not have believed that any
woman could be so completely under the
influence of a man as she was. His stronger
nature seemed to entirely dominate her. I
had not realized how far this was the case,
or the extent of the confidence which existed
between them, until that very evening when
his true character for the first time was made
clear to me. I had given orders that when
he called he should be shown into my study
instead of to the drawing-room. There I told
him bluntly that I knew all about him, that I
had taken steps to defeat his designs, and
that neither I nor my daughter desired ever
to see him again. I added that I thanked
God that I had found him out before he had
time to harm those precious objects which
it had been the work of my life-time to
protect.

“ He was certainly a man of iron nerve. He
took my remarks without a sign either of
surprise or of defiance, but listened gravely
and attentively until I had finished. Then

ROUND THE FIRE.

T ^ ^
l 00

he walked across the room without a word
and struck the bell.

“ ‘ Ask Miss Andreas to be so kind as to
step this way,’ said he to the servant.

“ My daughter entered, and the man closed
the door behind her. Then he took her
hand in his.

“ ‘ Elise,’ said he, ‘ your father has just
discovered that I am a villain. He knows
now what you knew before.’

“ She stood in silence, listening.

“ ‘ He says that we are to part for ever,’
said he.

“ She did not withdraw her hand.

“‘Will you be true to me, or will you re¬
move the last good
influence which is ever
likely to come into my
life?’

“‘John,’ she cried,
passionately, ‘ I will
never abandon you !

Never, never, not if
the whole world were
against you.’

“ In vain I argued
and pleaded with her.

It was absolutely use¬
less. Her whole life
was bound up in this
man before me. My
daughter, gentlemen, is
all that I have left to
love, and it filled me
with agony when I saw
how powerless I was
to save her from her
ruin. My helplessness
seemed to touch this
man who was the cause
of my trouble.

“ ‘ It may not be as
bad as you think, sir,’
said he, in his quiet,
inflexible way. ‘ I love
Elise with a love which
is strong enough to
rescue even one who has such a record as I
have. It was but yesterday that I promised
her that never again in my whole life would
I do a thing of which she should be ashamed.
I have made up my mind to it, and never yet
did I make up my mind to a thing which I
did not do.’

“ He spoke with an air which carried con¬
viction with it. As he concluded he put his
hand into his pocket and he drew out a small
cardboard box.

“ ‘ I am about to give you a proof of my

determination,’ said he. - ‘ This, Elise, shall
be the first-fruits of your redeeming influence
over me. You are right, sir, in thinking that
I had designs upon the jewels in your
possession. Such ventures have had a
charm for me, which depended as much
upon the risk run as upon the value of the
prize. Those famous and antique stones
of the Jewish priest were a challenge to my
daring and my ingenuity. I determined to
get them.’

“ ‘ I guessed as much.’

“ ‘ There was only one thing that you did
not guess.’

“ ‘ And what is that? ’

HE TILTED OUT THE CONTENTS.

“ ‘ 'That I got them. They are in this box.’

“ He opened the box, and tilted out the
contents upon the corner of my desk. My
hair rose and my flesh grew cold as I looked.
There were twelve magnificent square stones
engraved with mystical characters. There
could be no doubt that they were the jewels
of the urim and thummim.

“ ‘ Good God ! ’ I cried. ‘ How have you
escaped discovery ? ’

“‘By the substitution of twelve others,
made especially to my order in which the

134

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

originals are so carefully imitated that I defy
the eye to detect the difference.’

“ ‘ Then the present stones are false ? ’ I
cried.

“ 4 They have been for some weeks.’

“We all stood in silence, my daughter white
with emotion, but still holding this man by
the hand.

“ ‘You see what I am capable of, Elise,’
said he.

“ ‘ I see that you are capable of repentance
and restitution,’ she answered.

“ ‘ Yes, thanks to your influence ! I leave
the stones in your hands, sir. Do what you
like about it. But remember that whatever
you do against me, is done against the future
husband of your only daughter. You will
hear from me soon again, Elise. It is the
last time that I will ever cause pain to your
tender heart,’ and with these words he left
both the room and the house.

“ My position was a dreadful one. Here I
was with these precious relics in my posses¬
sion, and how could I return them without a
scandal and an exposure ? I knew the depth
of my daughter’s nature too well to suppose
that I would ever be able to detach her from
this man now that she had entirely given
him her heart. I was not even sure how far
it was right to detach her if she had such an
ameliorating influence over him. How could
I expose him without injuring her—and how
far was I justified in exposing him when he
had voluntarily put himself into my power ?
I thought and thought, until at last I formed
a resolution which may seem to you to be a
foolish one, and yet, if I had to do it again,
I believe it would be the best course open to
me.

“ My idea was to return the stones without
anyone being the wiser. With my keys I
could get into the museum at any time, and
I was confident that I could avoid Simpson,
whose hours and methods were familiar to
me. I determined to take no one into my
confidence—not even my daughter—whom I
told that I was about to visit my brother in
Scotland. I wanted a free hand for a few
nights, without inquiry as to my comings and

goings. To this end I took a room in
Harding Street that very night, with an inti¬
mation that I was a Pressman, and that I
should keep very late hours.

“ That night I made my way into the
museum, and I replaced four of the stones.
It was hard work, and took me all night.
When Simpson came round I always heard
his footsteps, and concealed myself in the
mummy-case. I had some knowledge of
gold-work, but was far less skilful than the
thief had been. He had replaced the setting
so exactly that I defy anyone to see the
difference. My work was rude and clumsy.
However, I hoped that the plate might not
be carefully examined, or the roughness of the
setting observed, until my task was done.
Next night I replaced four more stones. And
to-night I should have finished my task had
it not been for the unfortunate circumstance
which has caused me to reveal so much which
I should have wished to keep concealed. I
appeal to you, gentlemen, to your sense of
honour and of compassion, whether what I
have told you should go any farther or not.
My own happiness, my daughter’s future,
the hopes of this man’s regeneration, all de¬
pend upon your decision.”

“Which is,” said my friend, “that all is
well that ends well, and that the whole matter
ends here and at once. To-morrow the loose
settings shall be tightened by an expert gold¬
smith, and so passes the greatest danger to
which, since the destruction of the Temple,
the urim and thummim have been exposed.
Here is my hand, Professor Andreas, and I
can only hope that under such difficult
circumstances I should have carried myself
as unselfishly and as well.”

Just one footnote to this narrative.
Within a month Elise Andreas was married
to a man whose name, had I the indiscretion
to mention it, would appeal to my readers as
one who is now widely and deservedly
honoured. But if the truth were known, that
honour is due not to him but to the gentle
girl who plucked him back when «he had
gone so far down that dark road along which
few return.

The Story of Cleopatra s Needle.

FROM SYRENE TO LONDON.

By Susie Esplen.

N London, on the embank¬
ment of the Thames, standing
majestic in its great height
and solidity, is that wonderful
column of red granite known
to all as Cleopatra’s Needle.
What a history is attached to the obelisk,
a history which is as wonderful and strange
as the Needle itself is antique, for its age
dates back as far as 1,500 years before the
Christian Era. We are told that “ the
child Moses may have played around the
foot of this pillar; the Israelites looking
citywards from the brickfields saw the sun¬
light glittering on its tapering point; the
plague of darkness clothed it as with a
garment; the plague of frogs croaked and
squatted on its pediment; the plague of
locusts dashed themselves in flights against
it, and unto its likeness the heart of Pharaoh
was hardened. The sight of it takes us
back to a time when the Pisgah—sight of
Canaan—was but a promise with a desert and
forty years between.” Connecting the history
of the pillar with such ancient Biblical facts
as these, we realize how really aged the
Needle is ; but we have still to remember
that it had been witness to events which

took place many hundreds of years even
before the days of Moses.

WhenThothmesIII., called Egypt’s greatest
King, was in power he gave command for
another pair of obelisks to be cut out of the
quarries at Syrene and erected by the side
of those already standing, which Rameses
had set up before one of the many temples
of the Sun which were in Heliopolis.

Gazing thoughtlessly at the column one is
prone to overlook the fact that this tre¬
mendous pillar is unlike other equally high
columns in our land, as this one was not
built up to its present height by stone being
laid upon stone or block being placed upon
block, until the desired height and form
were attained, but from the first this was
hewn out of its place in the quarry in one
enormous mass. We can, therefore, under¬
stand the difficult undertaking it would be
to remove such a weight of granite from
one place to the other in the days when
steam was not in use. The quarries of
Syrene were seven hundred miles from
Heliopolis. 1 In an interesting book on this
subject written by the Rev. James King
(and to him I am indebted for much of this
information), we have an account of how in

136

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

those early times the task of cutting out and
removing this column was effected.

He tells us that in an old quarry at Syrene
there is to be seen an obelisk upon which the
workmen were busy, when for some reason
they were obliged to leave it only partially
cut out. From this it appears that when
the quarrymen wished to abstract a huge
mass, such as the Needle would be, they
marked out the form by cutting a deep groove,
in which, at intervals, they made oblong
holes. Into these holes they firmly wedged
blocks of timber, and then, filling the grooves
with water, the wood in time swelled and thus
the granite cracked along the outline from
wedge to wedge. Next came the difficulty
of taking the Needle on its first journey,
seven hundred miles up the river to the
City of Heliopolis. When it lay ready for
removal in the quarry, rollers made of palm
trees were laid so that the column could be
placed on them, and by this means it could
be pushed down to the edge of the river,
and there a raft was built round it. When
the Nile overflowed its banks, this raft and
its burden floated, and the stone was con¬
veyed to the nearest and most suitable point
from which it could again be conveyed on
rollers as* before to the pedestal which
was prepared for it to stand upon, and
by the help of ropes and levers made
from the date palm it was placed in
position. So faultless was the work done by
those men of old that, when the column was
erected on the pedestal, both had been so
accurately levelled,
where the one
fitted on the other,
that the Needle
when standing was
perfectly true in
the perpendicular.

Mr. King con¬
tinues to inform
us that in a grotto
at El - Bershch is
a representation
showing the re¬
moval of a gigantic
figure. The statue
is placed on a
sledge, and men
are represented
going before it
pouring oil in
grooves, along
which the sledge
slides, and by
means of ropes

four rows of men drag the figure along. And
from this we learn the method of the
column’s first removal. Once erected in
Heliopolis before one of the many temples
of the Sun, the Needle was allowed to
remain there with its companion one for
fourteen centuries.

Twenty-three years before Christ, Augustus
Caesar ordered the removal of them from
Heliopolis to Alexandria, and so the Needle
came to be taken on its second journey. In
Alexandria was a gorgeous palace of the
Caesars, and before the palace the columns
were set up. They are called Cleopatra’s
Needles, but in reality Cleopatra had no
connection with their history. She may
have helped to design the magnificent build¬
ing the front of which these obelisks adorned,
and her devoted subjects wishing to give
honour to the memory of their much-loved
Queen gave the pillars her name.

For fifteen centuries they were left to
stand in this last-named position, which was
close to the Port of Alexandria; and many
years after the grand building of the Caesars
had fallen in ruins, these two columns still
stood. With years the sea had advanced to
the base of the one in which we are more
especially interested, and with the ever-
advancing and receding waters the founda¬
tion of the Needle became so worn that
three hundred years ago it fell to the ground
unbroken and unharmed.

In 1801 the French and English fought,
and the latter, under Sir Ralph Abercrombie,

From a] PRISING up the needle, in orper TO BUILD THE FRAMEWORK under it, l Photo,

THE STORY OF CLEOPATRA'S NEEDLE.

137

From a]

BEGINNING THE FRAMEWORK.

were victorious. The battle having taken
place within sight of the Needle, the English
soldiers conceived the desire to possess and
take to England the fallen obelisk as a
trophy of their success. So anxious were
they to have this idea carried out, that they
willingly gave up some of their payment, and
collected ^7,000 towards the expense of its
removal.

The plan they adopted for its conveyance
to England on this occasion was to build a
pier seaward, and then, taking the Needle
to the end of it,
proposed putting
it through the
stern of an old
French frigate
which had been
raised for the pur¬
pose. When the
pier was partially
built a great storm
washed it away,
and very soon
after that the
soldiers were
ordered to leave
Egypt, and the
idea could not be
carried out. How¬
ever, the Needle
was removed a
few feet, and a
brass tablet was
inserted bearing
a record of the

Vol. xvii. — 18 .

British victory.
From this time
the mind of the
people appeared
to be in a state of
unrest concerning
the Needle — an
unrest which was
not quieted until
the column was
brought to Eng¬
land and erected
where it now
stands.

When George
IV. was reigning
in England, Me-
hemet Ali was
ruling in Egypt,
and he offered as
a gift to the King
{Photo. this obelisk.

George IV. for
some reason did not accept the gift. When
William IV. came to the throne it was again
offered, with an additional favour, for he also
promised to pay the cost for its transporta¬
tion. King William, like his predecessor,
King George, thought it best to excuse
himself from accepting the obelisk, so he
also refused it.

In 1849 the question was brought before
the House of Commons, that the offer made
by Mehemet Ali should be re-considered and
the obelisk brought to England, but an

PUTTING ON THE CASING.

{Photo.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

138

opposition party opposed the suggestion, con¬
sidering that the Needle would have become
so defaced as to be not worth the risk and
expense of removing it.

Many years after, when the great Hyde

English to remove it if they really valued
its possession, otherwise they ran the risk
of losing it altogether. In 1867 Sir James
E. Alexander was attracted by the beauty
of the column which was also presented

From a]

COMPLETING THE CASING.

r Photo.

Park Demonstration was being held, it was
again suggested that the obelisk should be
transported, in honour of the Prince Consort,
for his anxiety in trying to make the exhibition
a success, but the idea again fell through.
When the Sydenham Palace Company were
planning their great pavilion they wished to
have the Needle to place in the Egyptian
department of the building, of course intend¬
ing to pay for its transit. But it was against
order to give a
private company
any gift which
really belonged to
the nation.

The Needle all
these years was
still lying where
the British Army
left it, on the
shore of the Bay
of Alexandria.

The ground on
which it lay was
sold, and a Greek
merchant who
had bought the
land was anxious
to have the
column taken
away. The Khe¬
dive advised the from «j

by Mehemet Ali to the French, and stands
now in La Place de la Concorde. Remem¬
bering that the one belonging to the
English was lying unheeded on the shores of
Alexandria, he desired to have it brought
over to England, and accordingly went to
Egypt, gained an interview with the Khedive,
and with him discussed its possession and
removal. For ten years he was unwearying
in his watch over the monument, arranging

THE CASING FINISHED.

[ Photo,

THE STORY OF CLEOPATRA'S NEEDLE.

'39

From a] preparing to launch.

from time to time with the owner of the land
to allow it to remain where it was, hoping
meanwhile to be able to make some arrange¬
ments concerning it so that it might be
preserved for the English.

He came to the opinion that if ever the
obelisk was to be brought to England it
would not be at the expense of the nation’s
purse, but would need to be paid for by
private donations. With one or two friends,
anxious like himself for the protection of the
Needle, he intended to try and raise funds in
the City. However, first meeting his friend,
Professor Eras¬
mus Wilson, and
explaining all to
him,, the Pro¬
fessor generously
offered to pay the
sum of 10,000,
which was deem¬
ed sufficient for
the purpose.

In July of 1877
workmen were
once more busy
in connection
with this column
which already
had experienced
such a history.

The sand was
removed from
about it, and to
the delight of
those most inter¬

ested it was found
to be in an excel¬
lent state of pre¬
servation. Next
came the anxious
task of removing
it, something
more being neces¬
sary than the raft,
as of old, for the
long sea voyage
which lay before
it.

A paper might
be written on the
different methods
and numerous
plans invented
and suggested for
the transportation
of the Needle. Sir
James Alexander
had made the
acquaintance of Mr. John Dixon, a civil
engineer, and he, too, was interested in the
monolith. Professor Erasmus Wilson and
Mr. Dixon were introduced and discussed
the subject together, with the result that Mr.
Dixon undertook the responsibility of the
conveyance of the column to England,
Professor Wilson arranging to pay the
^10,000 on its erection in London. A
construction was therefore carefully designed
in England for encasing the Needle, so
that it would be a sea craft of itself, and
this was sent out to Egypt in pieces.

From al

I Photo,.

140

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

served and put

From a]

[Photo.

From a] the tugs in action.

One of the principal considerations when
making their designs was that the Needle
when encased required to be launched by
being rolled into the water, instead of being
sent off in the usual way. Another of the
chief difficulties to contend with in the
removal of the obelisk was that the bay near
which it was lying was unsafe for ships to
anchor in, as it was exposed to severe gales
and the ground was covered with shoals.
The Needle was raised some feet above the
ground, the smaller end swung round to be
parallel with the sea, and when in this posi¬
tion the work of encasing it was done.

When in this

on board the pon¬
toon, when ready
for sea, but after
the storm in the
bay they were
never seen again,
and the sailors,
being foreign, are
supposed to have
thrown them
overbbard,
through supersti¬
tion.

The Needle
whilst raised and
ready for encasing
had the plates
riveted in place
round it, the
inside was packed
with elastic tim¬
ber cushions to
preserve the stone when being rolled into
the water, or in case of any deflection in the
vessel’s length, which might occur through
the waves. The casing was made water-tight,
and the greatest care had to be taken to have
the column quite in the centre of the cylinder,
where it was fastened in position.

For the purpose of getting it into the
water, large wooden wheels, i6)4ft. in
diameter, were put on either end, and planks
were laid for it to roll down. From heavy
lighters lying in the bay, wire ropes were
taken and wrapped many times round the
cylinder. Also from the land side ropes

act of turning it,
the ground ap¬
peared to • be
giving way under
it, and, on ex¬
amination being
made, it was
found to be rest¬
ing on a small
vault, which was
6ft. long by 3ft.
wide and 4ft.
high. It was
e vi d e n 11 y an
ancient tomb,
for two human
skeletons and
some small jars
were found in
the cavity. The
skulls were pre-

THE STORY OF CLEOPATRA'S NEEDLE.

141

From a] repairing the hole made hy the rock. [Photo.

were secured to it, in case, when set in
motion, it went off at too great a speed, and
thus the ropes could check that fault. On
August 28th, 1877, all was ready for the
launch. Unfortunately, the morning com¬
menced with a thick fog, which only cleared
away as the day wore on.

A great crowd of people gathered to
witness the interesting event. All being in
readiness, the winches on board the lighters
worked the ropes connected with the encased
Needle, and it commenced to gradually move
towards the water,
but the movement
was so slow that
it could scarcely
be detected. After
some hours it
had only made
one complete turn
on its wheels. It
was then proved
that the vessels
from which the
wire ropes were
worked were not
able to hold their
ground against the
strain, but were
dragging their
anchors. Two tugs
which had been
standing by in
readiness to give
help if required
were called into
service, and being

connected with the cylinder towed it until she
moved a little farther into the water, but
although the tugs steamed at full power they
could not move the heavy weight at any
great speed. The planking ended by an
incline into the water, and divers had been
previously employed in removing shoals from
the intended course to prevent any mishap.
When the cylinder was brought to -the edge
of the railway, so to call it, the idea was that
it would roll down the incline and slip off
easily into the water.

Prom «J

LAUNCHED,

[l’hot>

142

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

All the first day was employed in bringing
it to the foot of the incline, and at night it
was left in no greater depth of water than
3ft. Next morning the tugs again were at
work trying to move it into deep water, but

the water to rush in and fill the cylinder. It
took some days to repair the damage made
by the rock, but after that was done it was
successfully floated and towed round to the
harbour, where final arrangements were made

From a]

PUTTING ON THE TOP-FITTINGS IN DOCK.

L Photo.

after making one full revolution it stuck, and
although the tugs continued to tow all day
it remained immovable.

On the third day divers discovered that a
hidden stone weighing half a ton had pierced
the plates, and making a hole had allowed

for the sea voyage. A cabin house and rail
were fixed on top, two bilge keels 40ft. long
were riveted one on either side, a mast and
rudder placed, and twenty tons of iron ballast
were put in her. It was manned by a crew
of five Maltese and an English captain.

THE STORY OF CLEOPA'IRA'S NEEDLE.

*43

The time occupied from beginning to encase
it until the completion was about three and
a half months.

A suitable steamer of sufficient size and
power was found in the ss. Olga, belonging
to Messrs. Wm. Johnson and Co., of Liver¬
pool. The craft, which was named the
Cleopatra , was now ready for sea. It was
designed not to travel faster than five or
six knots an hour, as greater speed might
be disastrous. The Olga, towing the Cleo¬
patra, set sail
from Alexandria
on the 21 st Sep¬
tember, 1877.

For the first
twenty days all
was prosperous
and uneventful,
but on the morn¬
ing of Sunday,
the 14th Octo¬
ber, when in the
Bay of Biscay,
a squall arose,
which towards
noon developed
into a gale. The
Cleopatra, how¬
ever, stood the
gale well, not
shipping enough
water to do any
serious harm
until about six
o’clock on the
evening of the
same day, when
a big sea caught
her, turning her
completely on
her beam ends
and carrying
away her mast.

A desperate effort was made to right her,
but without success; a small boat was
lowered, but to no purpose, and the captain
of the Olga at this point, seeing the danger
all were in, thought it wisest to disconnect
the two vessels, and so the cylinder was cut
adrift. A little later, the wind having fallen,
the Cleopatra signalled for assistance, and the
crew of the Olga, pitying the distress of their
fellow-sailors, volunteered to put off in a boat
and go to their rescue. The captain, thinking
it would be a fruitless effort, advised them
against it, saying : “A boat could not live in
such a sea.” The second officer, who had
all along taken a keen interest in the welfare

of the Cleopat?'a, replied: “ We can’t leave
the poor fellows to drown; and now, lads,
who will go with me ? ” He found five fine
able-bodied men, in the prime of life, were
willing to share the risk, and a boat was
launched and put off; but before they could
render any assistance a great wave washed
them away, and they were thus drowned in
endeavouring to save others.

After a time a line was thrown from the
Olga over the Cleopatra, and by means of

it a boat was
hauled from the
one vessel to
the other, and
the sailors on
the Needle were
saved. After
spending some
hours in search¬
ing for signs of
the lost boat
and the Cleo-
patra, the cap¬
tain of the Olga
set sail for Fal¬
mouth, with the
sad news of the
enforced aban¬
donment in the
Bay and the
supposed loss of
the Needle and
men.

W he n the
news was heard
in England, Mr.
Dixon was of
opinion that the
Needle would
not sink when
cast off, but
would float, the
only danger
being that she might be destroyed on rocks.
His surmising was correct in reference to
it floating, for a telegram was received sixty
days after the news of its loss saying that the
ss. Fitzmaurice, bound for Valencia from
Middlesbrough, had found and captured it
ninety miles north of Ferrol, and had towed
it into Vigo in Spain, and it remained in
that harbour about three months.

Sir James Ashbury, M.P., kindly offered
the loan of his yacht, the Eothe?i, to tow it
home, but arrangements were finally made
for the Anglia to do the work, and she
arrived in England with the obelisk in tow
on the 20th January, 1878.

ON THE THAMES EMBANKMENT.

From a Photo, kindly lent by G. II. Mabey, Esq.,Sculptor of Sphinxes and Pedestal.

Ivanka the Wolf-Slayer.

By Mark Eastwood.

come to see—the little one who slew the
wolf. At least,” he added quickly, with a
shrug, “ so they say, but I do not believe it.
Why, it is impossible ! A child — a mere
puppy 1 ”

The Muzhik had thrown out his hands.
He could contain himself no longer. “The
High Noble does not believe?” he cried,
wildly. Then he rushed into the house to

“• IV'A\I.'A, MY LITTLE ONE, SLEW THE WOLF.”

HE Prince threw the reins to
his servant and sprang from
the sledge.

“ Where is he ? ” demanded
he.

The Muzhik in the door¬
way of the hut stood bowing to the ground.
He did not presume to lift his eyes to the
High Noble, but they had flashed up like

signal-fires at the words. Yet he affected not
to understand.

“ Is it the old man, Ivan Ivanovitch, the
High Noble would honour with his com¬
mands ? ” he began. “His servant is full
of regret-”

“ Bother Ivan Ivanovitch 1 ” interrupted
the Prince, impatiently. “ What do I want
with your father ? It is Ivanka, your son, I

return in a moment brandishing in one hand
a knife, and in the other holding aloft a
shaggy hide.

“The Noble Prince does not believe?”
he repeated, and his eyes seemed to emit
sparks. “Let him behold the proofs.
Ivanka, my little one, slew the wolf, in very
truth ! Alone—alone he slew it ! ”

As though a flash of electric lire had flown

IVANKA THE WOLF-SLA YER.

H 5

from the man’s lips direct to the hearts of
his listeners, the faces of . both flamed up.
The man in the sledge lifted his cap and
crossed himself with fervent mutterings. He
passed the cuff of his coat across his wet,
shining eyes.

The Prince took the knife in his hand.
Such a thing it was ! You can buy the like
for twenty copeks (about sixpence) at any
Russian fair. One of the sort used by the
Russian peasant to cut forage, having a
crooked blade and horn handle. It was
stained, both blade and hilt, with blood.

“ I have bought another for use,” observed
the peasant.

“ It is wonderful,” murmured the Prince,
as he .turned the knife about in his hands.

At this juncture a pair of excited black
eyes, surmounted by a huge baranka , peered
round the corner of the hut, and as quickly
vanished.

Presently the Prince looked up. “ But
the boy ! ” he cried. “ Let us see this wonder¬
ful child and hear the story from his own
lips.”

The peasant looked sharply round.

“ He was here even when the High Noble
drew up. There is the hatchet and the wood
he was chopping. Ivanka! Ivanka! He
has hidden himself, the rascal.”

The Prince laughed.

“ Ivanka ! Ivanka ! ” almost shrieked the
peasant. “ I will teach you to run and hide
when the High Nobility come from far and
near to see you ! By all the saints, if you
do not instantly come forth from your hiding-
hole and relate the whole occurrence to the
Noble Prince, I will break every bone in
your body ! ”

Then it was that a coat of sheep’s skin
that just cleared the ground emerged from
behind the hut and moved slowly over the
trodden snow to within a few paces of the
Prince. You could only tell by the shining
eyes and the tip of a small red nose that
peeped between the high stand-up collar that
inside of it was a small boy.

Where he stood the blood-red sun bathed
him in heroic glory. Yet, in spite of all,
Ivanka the Wolf-Slayer had the mien of a
fruit-stealing culprit before the Chinovnik.
The Prince regarded him with mock
severity.

“ What is this I hear of you, Ivanka ? ” he
began. “ They say that you have slain a
wolf!”

Ivanka would have hung his head but that
his collar prevented it. So he dropped
his eyes in guilty silence. The peasant,

Vol. xvii.—19.

behind the Prince’s back, rubbed his hands
and chuckled.

“ Come here,” commanded the Prince, his
moustached lip twitching with a whimsical
smile.

The coat moved to the Prince’s feet.
Then the small boy inside it felt himself
caught up in strong arms and borne into the
hut.

Now, though it was a ruddy winter sunset
outside, in the hut it was quite gloomy.
The window was very small. A dull yellow
glow, like a big bull’s-eye, came from the
open door of the stove, and a glimmer like a
glow-worm from the tiny lamp that burned
before the Holy Image. The dim outline of
a woman with a child in her arms could be
discerned by the stove. She came forward
as the Prince entered, and bending low
raised the hem of his fur mantle to her lips
and silently returned to her seat.

The Prince sat by the window, and Ivanka
stood between his knees where he had been
placed. He trembled inside his sheep’s skin.
Yet it was a gentle hand that lifted the
baranka from his curly head and raised his
chin.

“ How old are you, Ivanka ? ” inquired the
Prince.

“Ten years, Noble Prince,” faltered the
boy. But his eyes meeting those of the
Prince at that moment he ceased to
tremble. And the longer he looked the
more comfortable he felt.

“And you have slain a wolf?” continued
the Prince.

“Yes, Noble Prince.”

“And what had the wolf done to you,
Ivanka, that you should have taken his life ? ”

“ He had seized our little Minka and
would have eaten her up.” Ivanka drew a
sharp breath.

“ How terrible ! ” exclaimed the Prince.
“But you—midge ! How did you dare to
tackle such a foe ? It is incredible ! Come,
tell me all about it. Begin at the beginning,
Ivanka.”

Ivanka gazed at the ground in silence.
He twisted one leg round the other, cracked
all his knuckles in succession, but the words
would not come.

“ Speak, Ivanka, do,” came a woman’s
coaxing voice from the gloom. “ Tell his
High Nobility how it happened.”

Another pause, and at length in a shy,
hesitating voice, Ivanka began :— :

“ Mother had gone to the town in the
sledge, and father lay asleep on the top of
the stove. It was afternoon. I was minding

146

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Minka, and we played at having a shop with
the bits of pot from the mug Minka broke.
Then I remembered it was time to cut the
fodder and feed the beasts, which I can do
as well as father now. So I took the fodder
knife and stole out. I left the door open a
bit—not enough to let the cold in on father,
but enough to hear Minka if she cried. I
had fed the cows in the byre and had got to
the corner of the house coming back, when
I heard Minka scream.”

As Ivanka uttered the last word his breath
came fast. He tossed back his locks wit hr a
sudden jerk of the head. Like a gladiator
preparing for combat, he threw out his chest,
setting his teeth, whilst his small, muscular
fingers contracted, doubling in like the claws
of a falcon. Forgotten was the princely
presence with that piteous appeal smiting
his ears.

“ 1 sprang forward,” he continued, “ and

strength came to me, and with a yell I threw
myself upon him.”

“ You were not afraid ? ” put in the Prince,
who had never taken his eyes off the boy
since he began to speak.

“ I did not think of fear,” replied Ivanka,
“I thought of my poor little Minka, and oh,
how fiercely I hated the monster. Hate kills
fear,” he added, reflectively.

“ And then ? ” inquired the Prince.

“ Oh, then he dropped Minka, and over
and over we rolled in the snow, he snarling
and worrying my sheep’s skin. He would
soon have made an end of me but for my
sheep’s skin.” And the boy patted his breast
.and looked himself over complacently.

“ And after ? ” the Prince again recalled
him.

“ After that he shook me until my bones
rattled in my skin. Then I was under him
and my mouth was full of his hair, and I was

saw Minka. She was on the ground just
outside the door. And over her hung a
monster, grim and terrible. His wicked eyes
gleamed red, and his cruel teeth were long
and sharp. I saw them as he lifted his
bristling lip to seize her in his jowl.”

A dry sob rose in Ivanka’s throat and
made him pause. He coughed it impatiently
away.

“ It seemed to me then—just for a
moment of horror—as though my limbs were
bound and I could not move, until the beast
began to drag Minka away. At the sight

so spent that I would have let him finish me.
But Minka cried, ‘ Ivanka ! Ivanka ! ’ and it
seemed too hard to leave her. It was that
moment I remembered that I still grasped
the knife.

“ How I struggled round between his
mighty paws until my arm was free to plunge
the weapon in his throat I know not, but I
felt the blood gush out over my face. And
then—and then, Minka’s voice went farther
and farther away and I seemed to be falling
as a star falls through the air.”

As Ivanka ceased speaking, a half-stifled

1VANKA THE WOLF-SLAYER.

i 47

sob was heard from the interior of the room.
The Prince had covered his eyes with his
hand as though dazzled. Yet the sun had
gone down and the place was more gloomy
than ever. The peasant stepped forward out
of the shadows and stood before the Prince

the Prince still held him between his
knees. Even when he rose to go, the
High Noble detained the boy'with a hand
on his head.

“ Give him to me,” he said to the peasant.
“ Let me take him with me when I go to

I STRUGGLED ROUND UNTIL MY ARM WAS FREE.”

in the dim light of the window. He took up
the tale.

“ It was the screams of the little one that
awoke me, your High Nobility, and I ran
out. Ah, never shall I forget the sight that
met my eyes ! There lay my little son,
dabbled in blood, and beside him the wolf
on its back, kicking in death convulsions.
When I picked up my Ivanka I thought him
dead, and my heart would have broken had
he not at once opened his eyes.

“ ‘ Minka,’ he whispered, 4 is she hurt?’

“ ‘ My darling, no,’ I answered. ‘ She
screams too lustily to be hurt.’

“ ‘ And the wolf?’ He raised his head
from my shoulder and looked wildly
around.

“ ‘ He is dead. You have slain him, my
hero,’ I assured him.

“ Then he shut his eyes with a great sigh.

“ ‘ Let me sleep, father,’ he murmured.
* I am so tired.’ ”

The peasant chuckled. “ He was played
out, my little wolf-slayer. The Noble Prince
should have seen how he lay like a sack,
and slept and slept ! ”

Meanwhile Ivanka had grown shy again
and gazed wistfully towards the door. But

Petersburg. I will make a great man of him.
He shall be a soldier and fight for the
Czar.”

There was dead silence. The peasant’s
face had gone crimson. His eyes flew to his
son and held him in jealous regard.

“ Will you go with me, Ivanka, you wolf-
slayer, to help keep the human wolves from
invading the dominions of the Czar? You
shall be taught with the sons of the highest
in the land, and shall wear the uniform of an
Imperial cadet.”

Ivanka raised solemn eyes to the face that
was bent towards him.' It was a noble face,
handsome and benign, and imposing against
the swelling sable of the high collar.

“ He is great and good and Beautiful, like
my patron saint, Ivan,” he thought. Something
stirred in the gloom of the hut, and quickly
Ivanka turned to where his mother sat with
the sleeping Minka in her lap. His lip began
to quiver.

The peasant found his tongue. “ Give
him time, Noble Prince,” he faltered, huskily,
and he too looked towards the crouching
figure by the stove. “ It is a great thing the
High Noble offers, but the boy is very
young.”

148

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE .

“ Take your time,” replied the Prince. was to him as though a bright noontide sun

“In the spring I shall return. Then, since had suddenly dropped from the heavens,

you are sensible people, he will be ready And there and then a feeling of longing after

to go.” greater things crept into his valiant little

With these words the great man stooped heart,
and kissed Ivanka, pressing a roll of notes “You shall decide for yourself, my son,”

“ THE GREAT MAN PRESSED A ROLL OF NOTES INTO HIS HAND.

into his hand. From the door Ivanka
watched the Prince depart. He gazed after
the fine sledge with its prancing horses as they
sped, swift as the wind, towards the wonderful,
mysterious city of the Great Czar. When
it had disappeared and the merry jingle of
the silver bells no longer reached his ear it

said the peasant. And the mother hid her
grief because she wished Ivanka to be a
great man.

Thus it was that when the spring came to
stir the sap in the trees and release the ice¬
bound brooks, at the return of the Prince,
Ivanka was ready to go.

In Nature's Workshop.

II.—FALSE PRETENCES.

By Grant Allen.

UMAN life and especially
human warfare are rich in
deceptions, wiles, and strata¬
gems. We dig pitfalls for
wild beasts, carefully concealed
by grass and branches: we
take in the unsuspecting fish with artificial
flies, or catch them with worms which con¬
ceal a hook treacherously barbed for their
surer destruction. The savage paints his
face and sticks feathers in his hair so that he
may look more terrifying to his expected
enemy ; civilized men mask their batteries,
and sometimes even paint muzzles of imagin¬
ary guns in the spaces between the gaping
mouths of the real ones. Chevaux de f,rise
block the way to points liable to attack ; real
troops lie in ambush and dart out unexpectedly

occur among fairly well-known English plants
and animals. And I shall begin with our
familiar and unsavoury old friend, the Devil’s
Coach-horse.

In order fully to understand his mode of
procedure, however, I must first call your
attention to another animal which really is
what the Devil’s Coach-horse mendaciously
pretends to be: and that is the common
scorpion. His mode of fighting is well
known to most of us. In illustration No. i
Mr. Enock has given us a delineation of
a frantic death-struggle between such a
scorpion and a large and powerful southern
spider. The venomous creature with the
stinging tail is on the left; the spider is on
the right. . As far as mere size goes, the
antagonists are fairly well matched; but the

I.—A BATTLE ROYAL I SCORPION V. SPIDER : THE SCORPION STRIKING.

in the rear of the assailants. Trade in like
manner is full of shams—a fact which I need
hardly impress by means of special examples.
But Nature we are usually accustomed to
consider as innocent and truthful. Alas, too
trustfully : for Nature too is a gay deceiver.
There is hardly a device invented by man
which she has not anticipated: hardly a
trick or ruse in his stock of wiles which she
did not find out for herself long before he
showed her.

I propose in this paper to examine a few
cases of such natural deceptions—not indeed
the most striking or typical, but such as

scorpion is the best armed, both with offem
sive and defensive armour. His lobster-like
or crab-like claws enable him to hold his
enemy’s limbs in his grip as in a vice;
then, at the critical moment, he bends
over his tail, in the extremity of which
his sting is situated, and plunges it with
force through the comparatively slight skin
of the spider’s body or thorax, injecting
at the same moment a pungent drop of his
deadly poison. This characteristic action
of the scorpion in curving its tail over its
body and raising its sting in a menacing
attitude is well known to birds and other

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

I 5 °

enemies of the species : often the mere
threat of a thrust is a sufficient deterrent :
the dangerous beast just elevates its
poisonous appendage or assumes an angry
mien, and the inquisitive intruder is
frightened away im¬
mediately. It is the
same with ourselves.

The bare sight of
that uplifted sting
suffices to repel us.

Even a child who
saw a scorpion once
arch its back and
prepare to strike with
its reversed tail
would instinctively
understand that there
was danger ahead,
and would withdraw
its hand before the
venomous creature
had time to pounce
upon it.

Owing to these
unamiable personal
traits of the scorpion
race, it is not popular among other animals.
But to be feared is to be respected; and
scorpions for the most part are left
severely alone, under the stones where they
love to lurk, by the various denizens of
the districts they inhabit. Now, it is a fact
in nature as in human life that to be success¬
ful is to have many imitators. Thus a number
of harmless flies dress up like wasps in black
and yellow bands, and so escape the too
pressing attentions of insect-eating birds and
other enemies. They have no stings, to be
sure, but they look so like the wasps, and
flaunt about so fearlessly in their borrowed
uniform, that they are universally taken for
the insects they mimic; even the cautious
entomologist himself stares at them twice
and makes quite sure of his specimen before
he ventures to lay
hands on any such
doubtful masque¬
rader. I hope in a
future article to
give some further
account (with illus¬
trations) of these
facts of mimicry , as
it is called : for the
present we will
stick close to our
text, the Devil’s
Coach-horse. For

this familiar English beetle is an imitator of
the scorpion, and obtains immunity from the
attack of enemies to a great extent by pre¬
tending to powers which are not his in reality.

In No. 2 we have a portrait of the Coach-
horse in his hours
of ease, seen from
above, engaged in
doing nothing in par¬
ticular. He does not
look like a flying
insect, but he is. He
has a long pair of
wings tucked away in
folds under his horny
wing-cases, and he
can use them with
great effect, for he is
one of our swiftest
and strongest fliers—
the long-distance
champion, I almost
fancy, among the
beetles of England,
unless indeed the
tiger-beetle be pitted
against him. But
when crawling on the ground, and attacked
or menaced, he does not take to flight
or show the white feather: being a pug¬
nacious and spirited little beast, he bridles
up at once, and endeavours incontinently
to terrify his assailant. In No. 2 you
see him from above when he is merely

engaged in crawling along the ground, looking
as mild as milk, and as gentle as any sucking
dove : you would hardly suppose he could
show fight or raise his hand — I mean his
antennae—to injure anyone. But in No. 3
he is represented in his favourite act of
attacking a caterpillar : for he is really a
very voracious and courageous carnivore.

In the autumn, when Devil’s Coach-horses
are usually most abundant, you can easily
catch them by putting a piece of meat or a
dead frog under an
empty flower - pot,
and then tilting the
edge up with a
stone, so that the
beetles can crawl
in and get at the
food thus tempt¬
ingly laid out for
them.

If you disturb
the Coach - horse,
however, while he
is engaged in eating

2.—THE DEVIL’S COACH-HORSE IN HIS HOURS OF EASE

3 .—THE DEVIL’S COACH-HORSE SAMPLING A CATERPILLAR.

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP,

151

his quiet meal, or even when lie is walk¬
ing at leisure along a country road, he
puts himself at once into his “terrifying”
attitude, and imitates the scorpion. No. 4
exhibits him in this military character,
cocking up his tail and pretending he
can sting—which is only his brag : he
just does it to frighten you. But the
attitude is so exactly like that of the scor¬
pion, that it almost always produces an
immediate effect: hardly anybody likes to
molest a Devil’s Coach-horse. If you put
down your hand to touch him, and lie rears
in response, ten to one you will withdraw it
in alarm at sight of him. I11 England these
beetles often enough find their way into
larders or cellars, seeking whom or what they
may devour; and when the servants light
upon them, they
almost invariably
decline to touch
them : there is a
general opinion
about that the ugly
and threatening
black beasts are un¬
canny and poison¬
ous, or else why
should they turn up
their tails at you in
such an insulting
fashion ?

“ But,” you may
object, “ there are
no scorpions in Eng¬
land : how then can
the Devil’s Coach-
horse be benefited
by imitating an
animal which he has
never seen, and of whose very existence he
has not been able to read in pretty picture
books ? ” Your objection has some force—
though not so much as you imagine. It is
quite true that there are no scorpions in
England ; but then, there are Devil’s Coach-
horses in many other countries, and the habit
of tail-cocking need not necessarily have been
acquired in these islands of Britain. That is
not all, however : it suffices the beetle if the
tactics it adopts happen to frighten and repel
its enemies, no matter why. Now, in the
first place, many of our migratory birds go in
winter to Southern Europe and Africa—
especially the insect-eaters, which can find
no food in frozen weather. The hard-billed
seed-eaters and fruit-eaters remain with us,
but the soft-billed kinds retire to warmer
climates, where food is plentiful. Of course,

however, it is just these insect-eating birds
that the Devil’s Coach horse has most to fear
from. The birds must be quite familiar with
the habits and manners of scorpions in their
southern homes; and they are not likely to
inquire closely whether the dangerous beast
they know on the Mediterranean has, or has
not, been scheduled in Britain. We all of
us dislike and distrust any insect 'that
resembles a bee or wasp, and that buzzes or
hums in a hostile manner; we give all such
creatures a wide berth, wherever found, on
the bare off-chance that they may turn out
to be venomous — be hornets or so
forth. Just in the same way, a bird,
when it sees' an unknown black beastie
cock up its tail and assume a threatening
attitude, is not likely to inquire too curiously
whether or not it
is really a scorpion :
the bare suspicion
of a sting is quite
enough to warn it
off from interfering
with any doubtful
customer. More¬
over, in the second
place, even those
birds or men who
have never seen a
scorpion at all are
yet sure to be
alarmed when an
insect sticks up its
forked tail mena¬
cingly, and shows
fight, instead of
skulking or flying
away. As a general
rule, if any animal
makes signs of resistance, we take it for
granted he has adequate arms or weapons
to resist with : and so this mere dumb-show
of being a sort of scorpion proves quite
sufficient to protect the Devil’s Coach-horse
from the majority of his enemies.

I ought to add that while our beetle thus
frightens larger enemies, he is actively and
offensively objectionable to small ones. The
main use of his tail, indeed, is for folding
away his wings, much as the earwig folds
hers by aid of her pincers. But the Devil’s
Coach-horse makes it serve a double purpose.
For he has a couple of yellow scent-glands in
his tail, which secrete an unpleasant and
acrid aromatic substance. These scent-
glands are protruded in No. 4 : you can just
see them at the tip of the tail; and if the
annoyance to which the beetle is subjected

4 ,—THE DEVII.’s COACH-HORSE PRETENDS TO BE A
SCORPION.

152

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

seems to call for their intervention, a drop
of the volatile body they distil is set free,
and is at once discharged in the face of the
enemy. Such a manoeuvre is in essence like
that of the skunk : it is defence by means of
a nasty odour, and it occurs not only in the
Coach-horse’s case, but also among a number
of beetles and other insects.

The odd little creatures known as Bom¬
bardier Beetles are still quainter in their
habits : they carry the last-mentioned mode
of defence to an even greater pitch of per¬
fection. For, like miniature artillery-men,
they actually fire off a regular volley of
explosive gas in the faces of their pursuers.
The gas is secreted as a liquid ; but it is very
volatile, and it vaporizes at once on contact
with the air, so as to form a small, white
cloud of pungent smoke, resembling in its
effects nitric acid. Our native English
species of Bombardier roams about in large
flocks or regiments : and when one member
of a clan is disturbed, all the other beetles
of the company let off their artillery at once,
so that the scattered volley has something
the appearance of platoon firing. The
chief enemy of the Bombardiers is a
much larger and very handsome carnivorous
beetle known as Calosoma. When this
insect tiger hunts down a single Bombardier,
and has almost caught him, the fugitive waits
till his pursuer is quite close, and then salutes
him with a discharge of lire-arms: the
pungent gas gets into the Calosoma’s eyes
and mouth and distracts him for a moment;
and the Bombardier escapes in the midst of
the confusion thus caused, under cover of
the cloud he himself has exploded. That is
the most highly evolved mode of defence of
which I know among the British insects.

There are few creatures, again, which one
would so little suspect of any attempt to
bully and bluff others as the soft-bodied
caterpillars. They are as a rule so plump
and squashy and defenceless : a mere peck
from a bird’s beak is enough to kill them, for
when once their tight, thin skin is broken,
were it but with a pin-prick, all the flabby
contents burst out at once in the messiest
fashion. Yet even caterpillars, strange to say,
have their tricks of terrifying. They pre¬
tend to be dangerous characters. I will set
out with some of the simplest and least
developed cases, and then pass on to a more
complex and wily class of deceivers.

To begin with, I must premise that two
sets of caterpillars have two different ways of
evading the unpleasant notice of birds and
other insect-eaters. One way is that adopted

by the common “ woolly-bear,” a great hairy
caterpillar, frequent in gardens, and covered
from head to tail with long needles or bristles.
These prickly points make the creature into
a sort of insect hedgehog ; birds refuse to
touch him, because the serried spikes, which
to us are mere hairs, seem to them perfect
spines or thorns, sticking into their tongues
and throats, or clogging their gizzards.
Protected caterpillars like the woolly-bears
live quite openly, exposed on the leaves and
branches of their food-plant; they are not
afraid of being seen : nay, they rather court
observation than shun it, because they know
nobody will attack them. The porcupine
has no need to run away like the rabbit.
Similar tactics are also adopted by many
nasty-tasting caterpillars, in whose bodies
natural selection has developed bitter or
unpleasant juices. These caterpillars are
rejected by birds and lizards —the great
enemies of the race—and therefore they find
it worth while to clothe themselves in gaudy
and conspicuous red or yellow bands, so as to
advertise all comers of their inedible qualities.
Whenever you see such brilliantly-attired
grubs (like those of the Magpie Moth, so
common on gooseberry-bushes—a striking
creature tricked out in belts of black and
orange), you may be sure of two things:
first, they live openly and undisguisedly on
the leaves of their food-plant, without any
attempt at mean concealment; and second,
they are nasty to the taste, and therefore
rejected as food by insect-eating animals.
Now and then a young and inexperienced
bird may eat one, to be sure; but it never
tries twice, and the solitary martyr is sacri¬
ficed for the good of the race. Their bright
colours and gaudy bands are just advertise¬
ments, as it were, of their inedible qualities.
For, of course, nasty taste would do a cater¬
pillar no good if the bird had always to
sample it before rejecting it; the broken skin
alone would be enough to kill it. Hence
almost all uneatable caterpillars have acquired
bright colours by natural selection—that is
to say, by the less bright being continuously
devoured or killed ; and birds on their side
have learned to know (after one trial, or,
perhaps, even before it by inherited instinct)
that red or yellow bands and belts in cater¬
pillars are the outward and visible sign of
uneatableness.

The second group or set of caterpillars is
edible and tasty : it, therefore, governs itself
accordingly, and has recourse to the exactly
opposite tatics. Caterpillars of this class
are smooth and naked : they never have the

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP\

T 53

brilliant “ warning colours ” of the nasty-
tasted kinds: and they show a marked
absence of the beautiful metallic sheen, the
strange melting iridescent hues and spots
which add beauty to the charms of so many
among the uneatable species. Such fat and
smooth-skinned edible caterpillars are, of
course, very tempting juicy morsels to birds
and other insect-eating animals. Their
motions, like those of all grubs, are slow :
and if they lived exposed on their food-
plants, after the fashion of the protected
hairy and bitter kinds, they would all be
eaten up before they had time to turn into
moths or butterflies. Here, therefore,
natural selection has produced the contrary
result from that which it produces
among protected kinds. Caterpillars of this
edible type which showed themselves too
openly and imprudently have got picked off
by birds, like sentries and pickets who make
themselves too conspicuous to the enemy’s
sharpshooters. Only the
most prudent, modest,
and retiring grubs have
survived to become moths
or butterflies, and so be
the parents of future
generations, to whom
they hand on their own
peculiarities. In this way
the edible caterpillars
have acquired at last a
fixed hereditary instinct
of lurking under leaves,
or in dark spots, and
never showing themselves
openly. The larvae of
the butterfly group as a
whole thus fall into two
great classes (as far as
regards habits alone, I
mean) : the protected,
which are either hairy or
nasty, and which flaunt
themselves openly; and
the unprotected, which
lurk and skulk, endeavour¬
ing to escape notice as
sedulously as their rivals
the protected endeavour
to attract it.

Nor is that all. It
would clearly be useless
for a bright red or yellow caterpillar to hide
under a green leaf, and then suppose by that
simple device he was going to escape obser¬
vation. Birds are always looking out for
insects under leaves. The consequence is

Vol. xvii.—20.

that skulking or lurking caterpillars are soon
found out by sharp-eyed and hungry enemies,
unless they closely resemble the foliage or
stems upon which they lie. From generation
to generation, accordingly, the less imitative
insects get eaten, and the more imitative
spared: so that nowadays, most unarmed
caterpillars are green like the leaves or grey
like the stems, and are even provided with
markings of light and shade upon their skins
which mimic the distribution of lightand shade
among the ribs and veins of the surrounding
foliage. Such deceptive leaf-like caterpillars
are always very difficult to find : so that care¬
less observers as a rule know only those of
the other type, the great hairy “ woolly-bears ”
and the brilliant red and yellow-banded bitter
kinds; they never observe the unobtrusive
green and brown sorts, which harmonize so
admirably with their native tree in colour
and markings.

Many greenish caterpillars, however, when
discovered and disturbed,
fall back on their second
line of defence : they
endeavour to frighten
their enemies by devices
closely similar to those
of the Devil’s Coach-
horse. The caterpillar of
the Broad-bordered Bee-
hawk, for example, forms
a good instance of a very
simple stage in the
development of such
brazen-faced “ terrifying ”
tactics. This warlike grub
is shown in No. 5, trying
on its simple little attempt
to make itself alarming.
Though by no means an
uncanny-looking or ap¬
palling insect, it will rear
itself up on its haunches
(so to speak) when
attacked, raising the fore
part of its body erect
with a sudden jerk, and
holding its head high, as
if it meant to bite or
sting, so as to give itself
as formidable an aspect
as possible. The mild
ruse succeeds, too; for
birds will eye the harmless creature askance
when it attempts this evolution, putting their
heads on one side, and ruffling their crests in
evident terror. The attitude is all a simple
piece of bluff, to be sure, but it pays ; indeed,

5.— CATERPILLAR OF THE BROAI3*BORDERED
HAWK TRYING TO LOOK ALARMING.

i54

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

bluff in warfare is often more than half the
battle. If you put on a bold face in a row,
and seem able to take care of yourself,
people are apt to think you have a knife up
your sleeve, and therefore to refrain from
unnecessarily annoying you.

The cunning caterpillar which finally
develops into the Privet Hawk-moth has a
slightly more evolved mode of purely thea¬
trical frightening. You see him in No. 6, a
full-fed specimen, just ready to turn at once
into a chrysalis. This grub feeds usually on
the vivid leaves of the
privet; he is therefore
protectively coloured a
bright green, like that
of the foliage about him.

“ But why those great
purple stripes on his
sides ? ” you will ask.

“Surely they must make
him an easy mark for
birds ? ” Not at all :
please notice that they
run obliquely. There
is method in that ob¬
liquity. When the cater¬
pillar is smaller, he lurks
unseen on the under¬
side of the leaves, and
this pattern of oblique
purplish lines exactly
imitates the general
effect ' of the shadows
cast by the ribs — so
much so, that if you
look for him on a
privet-tree in spring, I
doubt whether you will
find him till I point
him out to you. Even
when he waxes fat and
full fed, the purple
stripes still aid him more
or less by breaking up
the large green surface
into smaller areas, as Professor Poulton has
well noticed. He harmonizes better so with
the broken masses of the leaves about him.
Then again, when the time arrives for him to
turn into a chrysalis, he descends to the
ground, which, under a thickly-leaved privet
bush, is most often brown. So, just as he is
coming of age and reaching the proper
moment for migration, his back all at once
begins to turn brown, in order that he may
be less observed as he walks about on the
stem ; while by the time he is quite ready to
take to the earth he has grown brown all

over, thus matching the soil in which he has
next to bury himself. You could hardly have
a better example of the sort of colour-change
which often accompanies altered habits of
living.

In the illustration, however, you see this
really harmless and undefended grub in the
act of trying to pretend he is poisonous. He
is now mature, and the stripes on his sides
stand out conspicuously as he walks on the
stem. A sparrow threatens him. He re¬
torts by showing fight—fallaciously and
deceptively, for he has
nothing to fight with.
He lifts his head with
an aggressive air, and
throws himself about
from side to side, as if
he knew he could bite,
and meant to do it. He
also lashes his tail in
pretended anger — “I
would have you to
know, Sir Bird, I am
not to be trifled with ! n
The empty demonstra¬
tion usually succeeds :
the sparrow gets alarmed
and believes he means
it. This policy is, in
essence, that commonly
known as “ spirited ” : it
consists in trying to
frighten your enemy in¬
stead of fighting him.

The oddly-marked
caterpillar of the Puss
Moth carries the same
plan of campaign to a
much more artistic pitch.
This very quaint insect
is common on willows
and poplars in England,
and is on the whole pro¬
tectively coloured. Black
at first, it looks like a
mere speck or spot on the leaf; as it grows, it
becomes gradually greener, relieved with broad
purple patches on the back, which produce the
effect of lines and shadows. When quite full-
grown, as seen in No. 7, the adult caterpillar
generally rests at ease on the twigs of the
willow-tree. Our illustration shows it in this
final stage of its larval life, just taking alarm
and humping its back at the approach of
some bird or other enemy. If the alarm
continues, it goes through a most curious
series of evolutions, admirably shown by
Mr. Enock in No. 8. Here, the little

6.—FULL-GROWN CATERPILLAR OF
THE PRIVET HAWK-MOTH, SIMILARLY
OCCUPIED.

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

1 55

7 .—CATERPILLAR OF THE PUSS MOTH PREPARING FOR ACTION.

beast is altogether on the defensive: it
withdraws its head into the first ring
of the body, and inflates the margin,
which is bright red in colour. Two black
spots, which are not really eyes, but which
look absurdly eye - like, now give it a
grotesque and terrifying appearance. In
fact, the inflated ring resembles a hideous
grinning mask, and gives the impression of a
face with eyes, nose,
and mouth, like that of
some uncanny creep¬
ing creature. But the
apparent face is not a
face at all: it is art¬
fully made up of lines
and spots on the skin
of the body. At the
same time that the
caterpillar thus assumes
its mask, it stands on
its eight hind legs as
erect as it can, and
whips out two pink
bristles or tentacles
from the forked prongs
at the end of its tail—
you can see them in
the picture. It then bends forward the tail,
and brandishes or waves about these pink
bristles over its false 1 ead, so as to present
altogether a most gruesome aspect. Indeed,
even Mr. Enock’s vigorous sketch of the

little brute in its tragic moments does
not quite convey the full effect of its
acting in the absence of colour: for the
bright red margin and the swishing pink
switches add not a little to the telling smirk
and black goggle-eyes of the mask-like face
thus produced in terrorem.

That is not all, either. The Puss Moth
caterpillar has a rapid trick of facing about
abruptly in the direction of the enemy as if
it meant to bite: and this trick is always
most disconcerting. If ever so lightly
touched, it instantly assumes the terrifying
attitude, and presents its pretended face to
the astonished aggressor. From a harmless
caterpillar it becomes all at once a raging
bulldog. Touch it on the other side,
and it faces round like lightning in
the opposite direction. Professor Poulton
tried the effect of its grimace on a
marmoset, and found the marmoset was
afraid to touch the mysterious creature. We
are not marmosets, but I notice that most
human beings recoil instinctively from a Puss
Moth caterpillar when it assumes its mask.
Even if you know it is harmless, there is
something very alarming in its rapid twists
and turns, and in the persistent way in which
it grins and spits at you.

Really spits, too; for the insect has a.gland
in its head which ejects, at need, an irritating
fluid. If this fluid gets into your eyes, they
smart most unpleasantly. It contains formic
acid, and is strong enough to be exceedingly
stinging and painful. The discharge repels

lizards, and probably also birds, who are
among the chief enemies of this as of other
caterpillars.

The deadliest foe of the Puss Moth larva,
however, is the ichneumon-fly, a parasitic

8 .—THE SAME CATERPILLAR TERRIFYING AN ENEMY.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

156

creature, which lays its eggs in living cater¬
pillars, and lets its grubs hatch out inside
them, so as to devour the host from within
in the most ruthless fashion. There are
many kinds of ichneumon-fly, some of them
very minute: the one which attacks the
Puss Moth in its larval stage is a compara¬
tively big one. The fly lays its eggs behind
the caterpillar’s head, where the victim is
powerless to dislodge them. In all proba¬
bility the defensive attitude and the shower
of formic acid are chiefly of use against
these parasitic foes : for when an ichneumon-
fly appears, the caterpillar assumes his
“ terrifying ” attitude the moment it touches
him, and faces full
round to the foe
with his false mask
inflated. A very
small quantity of
the formic acid
Professor Poulton
found sufficient to
kill an ichneumon :
and there can be
little doubt that
this is its main
object.

The last of these
“ bluffing ” cater¬
pillars with which I
shall deal here is
that of the Lobster
Moth. In No. 9
you see a couple
of these quaint and
unwieldy creatures
“ demonstrating ”
before an enemy,
as if he were the
Sultan. The Lobster
Moth in its larval
stage frequents
beech - trees, and
you will see in the illustration that the two
represented are on a twig of beech. When
at rest, the caterpillar resembles a curled and
withered beech-leaf, and by this unconscious
mimicry escapes detection. But when dis¬
covered and roused to battle, oh, then he
imitates the action of the spider. He holds
up his short front legs in a menacing attitude,
so as to suggest a pair of frightful gaping
jaws: the four long legs behind these he
keeps wide apart and makes them quiver
with rage in the most alarming pantomimic
indignation. His tail he turns topsy¬
turvy over his head like a scorpion ; while
the forked appendages at its end seem

like frightful stings, with which he is just
about to inflict condign punishment on who¬
ever has dared to disturb his quiet. But it is
all mere brag, though the whole effect is
extremely terrifying. The performance does
not, indeed, mimic any particular venomous
beast, but it suggests most appalling and
paralyzing possibilities. Many of these queer
attitudes, indeed, owe their impressiveness
just to their grotesque simulation of one
knows not quite what: they are not definite
and special, they are worse than that ; they
appeal to the imagination. And if only you
reflect how afraid we often feel of the
most harmless insects, merely because they
look frightful, you
will readily under¬
stand that such
vague appeals to
the imagination
may be far more
effectual than any
real sting could
ever be. We dread
the unknown even
more than the
painful.

The funniest of
all these false
pretences, however,
is one which Her¬
mann Muller, I
believe, was the first
to point out in this
same Lobster Moth
caterpillar. When
very much bothered
by ichneumon-flies
(to whose attacks
it is particularly
exposed), this brist¬
ling beast displays,
for the first time,
two black patches
on its side, till then concealed by a triangu¬
lar flap. Now, these patches closely re¬
semble the sore of wound made by the
ichneumon when it deposits its eggs, so
it is probable that they serve to take
in the assailant, who is thus led to think
that another fly of her own kind has been
before her, and, therefore, that it is no
use laying her eggs where a previous parasite
is already in possession. There wo.uld not
be enough Lobster Moth to feed two hungry
ichneumon families. In fact, the caterpillar
first begins by bluffing, and says, “ If you
touch me, I bite ! ” then, finding the bluff
unsuccessful, it further pretends to throw up

9.—CATERPILLARS OF THE LOBSTER MOTH DEMON¬
STRATING IN FORCE BEFORE THE HOSTILE
BATTALIONS.

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

T 57

the sponge, and cries out with a bounce:
“Oh, if egg-laying is your game, that's no
good : I’m already occupied ! ” For a com¬
bination of wiles, this crafty double game
probably “licks creation.”

If the defenders are so cunning, however,
the attackers can. sometimes turn the tables
upon them. Animals that hunt often dis¬
guise themselves, in order to avoid the
notice of the prey, and so steal unobserved
upon their victims. Such tactics are like
those of the Kaffirs, who cut bits of bush, and
then creep up slowly, slowly behind them,
under cover of the branches, upon the gnus
or antelopes which they wish to slaughter. In
No. io we have one example of this method
of hunting or stalking, as pursued by the
intelligent English grass-spider. AH spiders,
of course, have eight legs, four on each side;
but in most of the class, the various pairs of
legs are evenly distributed, so as to lie about
the body in a rough circle or something like
it. The grass-spider, however, has his own
views on this important matter. His form
and attitude are quite peculiar. He lies
in wait for his prey on the open, crouched
against a stem of grass, with his two front
pairs of legs extended
before him, and his
back pair behind, in
an arrangement which
is rather linear than
circular. This position
makes him almost in¬
visible — much more
invisible in real life,
indeed, than you see
him in the drawing ;
for if he were repre¬
sented as inconspicuous
as he looks you would
say there was no spider
there at all, only a
naked grass-stem. The
delusion is heightened
by his lines and colours :
he is mostly green or
greenish, with narrow
black or brown stripes
which run more or less
up and down his body,
instead of cross-wise as
usual, so that they har¬
monize beautifully with
the up-and-down lines
of the blades and stem
in the tuft which he
inhabits. When he is
pressed close against a

to. grass-spider, in am hush
FOR FLIES.

bent of grass, on the look-out for flies, it is
almost impossible for the quickest eye to dis¬
tinguish him. Flies come near, never suspect¬
ing the presence of their hereditary foe; as
soon as the/ are close to him, the grass-
spider rushes out with a dash and secures
them. His jaws are among the most
terrible in all his terrible race: they are
large and wide-spreading, with two rows of
teeth on either side, and a pair of long fangs
of truly formidable proportions.

In other ways, also, this particular spider
is a clever fellow, for he lives near water;
but when the rains are heavy and there is
likely to be a flood, he shifts his quarters
higher up the ground, and so escapes im¬
pending inundation.

Deceptions and false pretences of this sort
are somewhat less common among plants
than among animals ; but still, they occur,
and that not infrequently. “ What ? Plants
deceive?” you cry. “The innocent little
flowers ? How can they do it ? Surely that
is impossible!” By no means. 1 have
watched plant life pretty closely for a good
many years now, and every year the con¬
viction is forced upon me more and
more profoundly that
whatever animals do,
plants do almost
equally. There is no
vile trick or ruse or
stratagem that they can¬
not imitate : no base
deception that they will
not practise. They lie
and steal with the worst;
they hold out false baits
for deluded insects, and
hide real fly-traps with
honeyed words and
sweet secretions.

As a good illustra¬
tion among English
plants, look at the Grass
of Parnassus, that
beautiful, dishonest
bog-herb, with glossy-
green leaves and pure
white blossoms, which
is considered the
especial guerdon of
poets. I found a whole
nest of it once in a
swamp near Cromer,
and carried off a bunch
of the lovely flowers as
an appropriate offering
to Mr. Swinburne who

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

was stopping
at Sidestrand.

Yet this poet’s
flower, dainty
and delicate as
it is—you see
in No. n its
counterfeit pre-
sentment—is
not ashamed
to deceive the
poor bees and
flies in a way
which the
Heathen Chi¬
nee would have
considered un¬
sportsmanlike.

It is a sham, a
commercial
sham of the
worst type. It
lives for the
most part on
wet moors
among moun¬
tains, or else in
the boggy hol¬
lows between
blown sand¬
hills by the sea:
and when its
milk-white
flowers star the
ground in such
spots, it forms
one of the loveliest ornaments of our
English flora. But trust it not, oh butter¬
fly : it is fooling thee ! From a distance,
it looks as if it were full of honey; it
advertises well : but at close quarters ’tis
a wooden nutmeg; it turns out to be
nothing better than an arrant humbug.

The deception is man¬
aged in this disgraceful
fashion. Inside each petal
lies a curious ten or twelve¬
fingered organ, which is in
reality an abortive stamen.

No. 12 shows you one such
petal removed, with the
false honey - glands drawn
on a larger scale than in
the other illustration. The
ten - fingered stamen bears
at its tip a number of
translucent yellow drops,
which look like pure nectar.

But they are nothing of

the kind ; I
regret to say,
they are solid
— solid — a
c o m m e r cial
falsehood.
They glisten
like drops : but
they are mere
glassy imita¬
tions ; and they
are put there
with intent to
deceive, in
order to attract
flies and other
insects, which
come to quaff
the supposed
nectar, and so
unwittingly fer¬
tilize the seeds,
while they are
m u d a 1 i n g
about per¬
plexed among
the pretended
honey - glands,
without getting
paid one sip for
their toil and
trouble. This
is, of course, a
flagrant case of
obtaining ser¬
vices under
false pretences; it deserves fourteen days’
without the option of a fine. As a rule,
in similar cases, the flies are rewarded
for their kind offices as carriers by the
merited wage of a drop of honey. But the
Grass of Parnassus, mendacious herb, pre¬
tends to be purveying a specially fine quantity
and quality of nectar, while
in reality it offers only a
hard, glassy knob with
nothing in it. This pays
the plant, of course, because
the blossoms do not have
to go on producing honey
fresh and fresh; a mere
inexpensive show does just
as well as the real article:
“ Our customers like it! ”
but the language of the
flies when they discover
the fraud is something just
awful.

Nor is this by any means

II.—GRASS OP PARNASSUS, DISPLAYING AND ADVERTISING ITS
IMITATION HONEY.

12.—A SINGLE PETAL, TO SHOW THE
CHARACTER OF THE SHAM HONEY.

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

i59

a solitary example of plant depravity. The
whole group of pitcher-plants, for instance,
cruelly manure themselves by means of
living insects in the most treacherous fashion.
These lovely and wicked plants live, without
exception, in wet and boggy soil, where they
cannot get enough animal matter for manure
in the ordinary way by the roots: so they
lay themselves out instead to capture and
absorb the tissues of insects. For this
horrid purpose, they twist their leaves into
deep pitchers which catch and hold the rain
water, and so form reservoirs to drown their
prey. Then they entice insects by bright
colours to their traps, and allure them to
enter by secreting honey at the top of the
pitcher. Hairs point downward inside; these
allow the flies to walk on to their fate,
bribed as they go by lines of nectar: but if
they try to return, ah, then they find their
mistake : the hairs prevent them, after the
fashion of a lobster-pot. Thus they walk on
and on till they reach the water, when they
are swamped and clotted in a decaying mass,
from which the treacherous plant draws
manure at last for its own purposes. The
pitchers are thus at once traps to catch
animals, and stomachs to digest them.

Another and still odder case of deceptive¬
ness in plants is. shown by a curious
group of South African flowers, the
Hydnoras and Stapelias. These queer
and malodorous herbs have very large and
rather handsome but fleshy blossoms, an
inch or two across, dappled and spotted
just like decaying meat. They live in the
dry and almost desert region, where carrion-
flies abound. Such flies lay their eggs and
hatch out their grubs for the most part in
half-eaten carcasses of antelopes or smaller
animals killed and in part devoured by lions
and other beasts of prey. So the flowers
have taken to imitating dead meat. They
are a lurid red in colour, with livid livery
patches, and they have a strong and un¬
pleasant smell of decaying animal matter.
The flies, deceived by the scent, flock to
them to lay their eggs, and in so doing carry
out the real object of the plant by fertilizing
the blossoms. But, of course, the whole
thing is a vile sham ; for when the mag¬
gots hatch out, the flower has died, and
there is no food for them, so they perish

of starvation. Dr. Blackmore, of Salisbury,
once gave me some of these curious plants
and flowers : I noticed that in the sunlight,
where they smelt just like decomposing meat,
they attracted dozens of bluebottle flies and
other carrion insects.

Protective resemblance also occurs among
plants: for in the same dry South African
region, where every green thing gets nibbled
down in the rainless season, certain ice-
plants and milk-weeds have acquired the

trick of forming tubers or stems exactly like
the pebbles among which they grow : so that
when the leaves die down in the dry

weather, the tuber is not distinguishable
from the stones all round it. Such

tubers are really reservoirs of living
material destined to carry the life of the
plant over the dead season : as soon as
rain comes again, they put forth fresh green
leaves at once, and grow on after their sleep
as if nothing had happened. Even terrify¬
ing attitudes are not unknown in the

vegetable world : for one of the uses of the
movements in the Sensitive Plant is almost
certainly to frighten animals. Browsing
creatures that come near the bushes in their
native woods see the leaves shrink back and
curl up when touched, and are afraid to eat
a tree that has so evidently a spirit in it.
The Squirting Cucumber of the Mediter¬
ranean, again, alarms goats and cattle by
discharging its ripe fruits explosively in their
faces the moment the stem is touched. In
this case the primary object is no doubt the
dispersal of the seeds, which squirt out
elastically as the fruit jumps off; but to
frighten browsing enemies is a secondary
advantage. There can be no question as to
the reality of the plant’s hostile intention,
because the fruits also contain a pungent
juice, which discharges itself at the same
instant into the eyes of the assailant. As I
have received a volley of this irritating liquid
more than once in my own face (in the
pursuit of science) I can testify personally on
the best of evidence that it is distinctly
painful. The tactics of the Squirting
Cucumber in first frightening you, and
then injecting acrid juice into your eyes,
are thus exactly similar to the plan of
action pursued by the angry larva of the
Puss Moth.

From Behind the Speaker's Chair.

XLVIII.

(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)

THE SEARCH FOR
GUY FAWKES.

IE proceedings
at the opening of
the forthcoming
Session, the fifth
in the fourteenth
Parliament of
Queen Victoria,
will be fully re¬
ported in the
morning papers.
There is a pro¬
ceeding prelimi¬
nary to the
Speaker’s taking
the Chair which,
from its history

A BEEF-EATER TEMP. HENRY VI,I. ^ ^aCtCT,

of necessity con¬
ducted in secret. It is the search through
the underground chambers and passages of
the House with design to frustrate any
schemes in the direction of a dissolution
of Parliament that descendants or disciples
of Guy Fawkes may have in hand. The
present generation has seen, more especially
when a Conservative Government have been
in power, some revolutionary changes in
Parliamentary procedure. The solemn search
underneath the Houses of Parliament, pre¬
ceding the opening of the revolving Sessions
ever since Gunpowder Plot, is still observed
with all the pomp and circumstance attached
to it three hundred years ago.

The investigation is conducted under the
personal direction of the Lord Great
Chamberlain, who is answerable with his
head for any miscarriage. When a peer
comes newly to the office he makes a point
of personally accompanying the expedition.
But, though picturesque, and essential to the
working of the British Constitution, it palls in

time, and the Lord Great Chamberlain,
relying upon the discretion, presence of
mind, and resource of his Secretary,
usually leaves it to him. Oddly enough,
the House of Commons is not officially
represented at the performance, the avowed
object of which is not, primarily, to secure
the safety of the Lords and Commons,
but to avert the conclusion aimed at by Guy
Fawkes—namely, to blow up the Sovereign.
It is as the personal representative of the
Queen that the Lord Great Chamberlain
takes the business in hand.

To this day the result of the inquiry is
directly communicated to Her Majesty. Up
to a period dating back less than fifty years,
as soon as the search was over, the Lord Great
Chamberlain dispatched a messenger on
horseback to the Sovereign, informing him
(or her) that all was well, and that Majesty
might safely repair to Westminster to open
the new Session. To-day the telegraph
wires carry the assurance to the Queen
wherever she may chance to be in resi¬
dence on the day before the opening of
Parliament.

Whilst the Commons take no
1HK official part in the performance,
search t j ie p eers are represented either
PARrY * by Black Rod or by his deputy,
the Yeoman Usher, who is accompanied by
half-a-dozen stalwart doorkeepers and mes¬
sengers, handy in case of a fray. The Board
of Works are represented by the Chief Sur¬
veyor of the London District, accompanied
by the Clerk of Works to the Houses of
Parliament. The Chief Engineer of the
House of Commons, who is responsible for
all the underground workings of the building,
leads the party, the Chief Inspector of Police
boldly marching on his left hand.

These are details prosaic enough. The
nineteenth century has engrafted them on
the sixteenth. The picturesqueness of the

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR.

161

scene comes in with the appearance of the
armed contingent. This is made up of some
fourteen or sixteen of the
Yeomen of the Guard,
who arrive at the place of
rendezvous armed with
halberds and swords. The
halberds look well, but
this search is, above all, a
business undertaking. It
is recognised that for close
combat in the vaults and
narrow passages of the
building halberds would be
a little unwieldy. They
are accordingly stacked in
the Prince’s Chamber, the
Yeomen fearlessly marching
on armed with nothing but
their swords. Clad in their
fifteenth century costume,
they are commanded by
an officer who wears a
scarlet swallow-tailed coat,
cocked hat, and feathers,
gilt spurs shining at his martial heel. The Gladstone
spurs are not likely to be needed. But the
British officer knows how to prepare for any
emergency.

Following the Yeomen of the Guard stride
half-a-dozen martial men in costumes dating
from the early part of the present century.

They wear swallow-tail coats, truncated cone
caps, with the base of the cone uppermost.

They are armed with

PARLIA¬

MENTARY

CAVES.

INSPECTOR HORSLEY.

short, serviceable
cutlasses and batons,
such as undertakers’
men carry, suggest¬
ing that they have
come to bury Guy
Fawkes, not to catch
him.

Most of the under¬
ground chambers
and passages of the
Houses of Parlia¬
ment are lit by elec¬
tricity. Failing that,
they are flooded with
gas. When search
for Guy Fawkes was
first ordered, the
uses of gas had not
been discovered,
much less the possi¬
bilities of electricity

A CAVE-MAN.

Lanterns were the

only thing, so lanterns are still used. As the
dauntless company of men-at-arms tramp

Vdl. xvti.— 21.

along the subterranean passages, it is pretty to
see the tallow dips in the swinging lanterns
shamed by the wanton light
that beats from the electric
lamps.

Her Majesty’s
Ministers meet¬
ing Parliament
at the opening
of their fifth Session remain
happy in the reflection that
their position is not endan¬
gered by any mines dug
within the limits of their
own escarpment. It is
different in the opposite
camp. The first thing good
Liberals do as soon as
their own party comes into
power is to commence a
series of manoeuvres de¬
signed to thrust it forth.
Sometimes they are called
“ caves,” occasionally “tea¬
room cabals.” But, as Mr.
learned in the 1868-74 Parlia¬
ment, in that of 1880-85, and, with tragic
force, in the Parliament which made an end
of what Mr. Chamberlain called “The Stop-
Gap Government,” they all mean the same
thing. Lord Rosebery when he came to
the Premiership found the habit was not
eradicated.

The condition of men and things in the
House of Commons
when Parliament
met after the General
Election in July,
1895, was rarely
favourable to the for¬
mation of “ caves ”
on the Ministerial
side. To begin
with, the Govern¬
ment had such an
o v e r w h e 1 m i n g
majority that the
game of playing at
being independent
was so safe that its
enjoyment was not
forbidden to the

most loyal Unionist.
Given that con¬
dition, there were
existent personal
circumstances that supplied abundant mate¬
rial for cave - making. The necessity
imposed on Lord Salisbury of finding

162

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

place in his Ministry for gentlemen out¬
side the Conservative camp made it im¬
possible not only to satisfy reasonable
aspirations on the part of new men of his

SHELVED WITH A PEERAGE. (BARON DE WORMS.)

own party, but even to reinstate some ex-
Ministers. Some, like Baron de Worms,
were shelved with a peerage. Others, over¬
looked, were left to find places on back

PARLIA¬

MENTARY

HAND.

cold. Whilst most of the leading members of
the Liberal Unionist wing, including Mr.
Jesse Collings and Mr. Powell Williams,
were provided with office, Mr. Courtney’s
claims were ignored, and Sir John Lubbock’s
were probably never considered.

Amongst Conservative members
an old W | 1Q k ac j nQt k een in office but

were not alone in their belief
that they were well fitted for it
were Mr. Gibson Bowles and
Mr. George Wyndham—the latter since
deservedly provided for. Moreover, to
a corner seat below the gangway returned
Mr. James Lowther, thought good enough
in Disraeli’s time to be Under-Secretary
for the Colonies and Chief Secretary
for Ireland. Since the death of Lord
Beaconsfield kings had arisen in Egypt who
knew not “Jemmy,” or, at least, forgot his
existence at a time when Ministerial offices
were dispensed. The member for East
Thanet, first returned for York in the summer
of 1865, is not only personally popular
in the House, but has high standing as an old
Parliamentary hand. If he had liked to turn
rusty, he might have done the Conservative
Party at least as much harm as Mr. Horsman
when in the same mood wrought to the party
with which, to the last, he ranked himself.

benches above or below the gangway. Of
men who held office in Lord Salisbury’s
former Administration, Mr. Jackson, Sir
James Fergusson, Sir W. Hart-Dyke, and
Sir E. Ashmead-Bartlett were left out in the

From time to time Mr. Lowther has vindi¬
cated his independence of Ministerial disci¬
pline by dividing the House on the question
of the futility of reading, at the commence¬
ment of recurring Sessions, the standing order

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR.

t 6^

forbidding peers to interfere with elections.
He has not gone beyond that, and whenever
attempt has been made from the Opposi¬
tion side to inflict damage on the best of all
Governments, he has ranged himself on the
side of Ministers.

Sir W. Hart-Dyke, Sir James
over- Fergusson, and the late Sir VV.
looked. Forwood, instead of openly re¬
senting neglect, on more than
one occasion went out of their way to
defend the colleagues of the Prime Minister
who slighted them. Mr. Wyndham was
last Session not less generously loyal. Mr.
Tommy Bowles, it is true, has been on
occasion fractious. As for Sir E. Ashmead-
Bartlett, when he recovered from the shock
of realization that Lord Salisbury had not
only formed a Ministry without including
him in its membership, but looked as if he
would be able to carry it on, he showed signs
of resentment. Through successive Sessions
he has sedulously
endeavoured to
embarrass an un¬
appreciative Pre¬
mier by cunningly
devised questions
addressed to the
Colonial Secretary
or to the Under¬
secretary for
Foreign Affairs.

Mr. Chamberlain
and Mr. Curzon
alike proved able
to hold their own,
and the Sheffield
Knight coming out
to kick has found
himself fulfilling the
the football.

A more serious defection was
mr. threatened last Session as the
yerburgh. result of the distrust and dis¬
content in Ministerial circles
of Lord Salisbury’s foreign policy. Mr.
Yerburgh, moved by apprehension that the
interests of the British Empire in the Far
East were at stake, instituted a series of
weekly dinners at the Junior Carlton, where
matters were talked over. The dinners
were excellent, the wines choice, and Mr.
Yerburgh has a delicate taste in cigars.
This meeting at dinner instead of at tea, as
was the fashion in the Liberal camp at the
time of Mr. Gladstone’s trouble over the
Irish University Bill in 1873, seemed to in¬
dicate manlier purpose. But nothing came of

THE HUMBLE FUNCTION OF THE FOOTBALL.

humble function of

it, except a distinct advancement of Mr.
Yerburgh’s position in the House of Com¬
mons. He, as spokesman of the malcontents,
found opportunity to display a complete
mastery of an intricate geographical and
political position, combined with capacity for
forcibly and clearly stating his case.

Thus Lord Salisbury remained master of
himself though China fell. Had Mr. Glad¬
stone been in his position, under precisely
similar circumstances, it would have been
Her Majesty’s Ministry that would have
fallen to pieces.

joined usua l recess has seen the
THF final going over to the majority
ma Tor i tv of old m embers of the House of
Commons. Two who have died
since the prorogation were distinct types of
utterly divergent classes. There was nothing
in common between the Earl of Winchilsea
and Mr. T. B. Potter, except that they both
sat in the 1880 Parliament, saw the rise of
the Fourth Party,
and the crumbling
away of Mr. Glad¬
stone’s magnificent
majority. Mr.
Potter was by far
the older member,
having taken his
seat for Rochdale
on the death of
Mr. Cobden in
1865. Except
physically, he did
not fill a large
place in the House,
but was much es¬
teemed on both
sides for his honest
purpose and his genial good temper.

This last was imperturbable. It was not
to be disturbed even by a double misfortune
that accompanied one of the Cobden Club’s
annual dining expeditions to Greenwich. On
the voyage out, passing Temple Pier, one of
the guests fell overboard. At the start on
the return journey, another guest, a distin¬
guished Frenchman, stepping aboard as he
thought, fell into the gurgling river, and was
fished out with a boat-hook. Yet Mr. Potter,
President of the Club, largely responsible for
the success of the outing, did not on either
occasion intermit his beaming smile.

Fie was always ready to be of
a buffer service in whatsoever unobtrusive
state, manner. The House cherishes
tender memories of a scene in
1890. The fight in Committee Room

164

THE S TEA HD MAGAZINE.

No. 15 had recently closed. Its memories
still seared the breasts of the Irish
members. Members were never certain that
at any moment active hostilities might not
commence even under the eye of the

Thames barge slipping down the river with
the tide. He made his way to the bench
where the severed Irish Leaders sat,
and planted himself out between them,
they perforce moving to right and left to

THE BUFFER STATE.

Speaker. One night a motion by Mr. John
Morley raising the Irish question brought
a large muster of the contending forces.
Mr. Parnell, who had temporarily withdrawn
from the scene, put in
an appearance with the
rest. He happened to
seat himself on the same
bench as Mr. Justin
McCarthy, whom the
majority of the Irish
members had elected to
succeed him in the leader¬
ship. Only a narrow
space divided the twain.

The most apprehensive
did not anticipate militant
action on the part of Mr.

McCarthy. But, looking
at Mr. Parnell's pale, stern
face, knowing from report
of proceedings in Com¬
mittee Room No. 15 what
passion smouldered
beneath that mild exterior,
timid members thought of
what might happen, sup¬
posing the two rose together
diversely claiming the ear of the House as
Leader of the Irish Party.

At this moment Mr. T. B. Potter entered
and moved slowly up the House like a

THE LATE LORD WINCHILSEA,

PROMISING

START.

make room. Seeing him there, his white
waistcoat shimmering in the evening light
like the mainsail of an East Indiaman, the
House felt that all was well. Mr. Parnell
was a long-armed man;
but, under whatsoever
stress of passion, he could
not get at Mr. McCarthy
across the broad space of
the member for Rochdale.

Lord Winchil-
sea sat in this
same Parlia¬
ment as Mr.
Finch-Hatton. He early
made his mark by a maiden
speech delivered on one
of the interminable debates
on Egypt. He was con¬
tent to leave it there,
never, as far as I re¬
member, again taking part
in set debate. His appear¬
ance was striking. Many
years after, when he had
succeeded to the earldom,
I happened to be present
when he rose from the
luncheon - table at Haverholme Priory to
acknowledge the toast of his health. By
accident or design he stood under a con¬
temporary portrait of his great ancestor,

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR.

Christopher Hatton, Queen Elizabeth’s
Lord Chancellor. The likeness between
the founder of the family and a scion
separated by the space of more than three
hundred years was almost startling.

Lord Winchilsea aged rapidly. When he
made his maiden speech in the House of
Commons he had not advanced beyond
the stage of the young dandy. His face
was a shade of ivory, the pallor made more
striking by the coal-black hair. His attitude,
like his dress and everything about him, was
carefully studied. His left hand, rigidly
extended, lightly rested behind his back.
His right hand, when not in action, hid his
finger-tips in the breast of a closely-buttoned
frock-coat. Occasionally, he withdrew his
hand and made stiff gestures in the air as if
he were writing hieroglyphs. Occasionally,
he emphasized a point by slightly bowing to
the amused audience.

The matter of his speech was excellent, its
form, occasionally, as extravagant as his get-
up. The House roared with laughter when
Mr. Finch-Hatton, pointing stiff finger-tips
at Mr. Gladstone smiling on the Treasury
Bench, invited members to visit the Premier
on his uneasy couch and watch him moaning
and tossing as the long procession of his
pallid victims passed before him. This
reminiscence of a scene from “Richard III.”
was a great success, though not quite in the
manner Mr. Hatton, working it out in his
study, had forecast.

A man of great natural capacity, wide
culture, and, as was shown in his later con¬
nection with agriculture, of indomitable
industry, he would, having lived down his
extravagancies, have made a career in the
Commons. Called thence by early doom he
went to the Lords, and was promptly and
finally extinguished.

Another 0 ld member of the
House who died in the recess is
Mr. Column. The great mustard

AT J. J.

colman’s.

manufacturer, whose name was
carried on tin boxes to the uttermost ends
of the earth, never made his mark in the
House of Commons. I doubt whether he
ever got so far as to work off his maiden
speech. A quiet, kindly, shrewd man of
business, he was content to look on whilst
others fought and talked. He came too late
to the House to be ever thoroughly at one
with it, and took an early opportunity of
retiring.

Mr. Gladstone had a high respect for him,
and occasionally visited his beautiful home
in Norfolk. One of these occasions became

I ^5

historic by reason of Mr. Gladstone unwit¬
tingly making a little joke. Coming down
to breakfast one morning, and finding the
house-party already gathered in the room,
Mr. Gladstone cheerily remarked, “ What,
are we all mustered ? ”

He never knew why this innocent obser¬
vation had such remarkable success with
Mr. J. J. Colman’s guests.

A few more recollections of Mr.

stone’s Gladstone whilst still in harness.
T \pt tt 'tat k' 1 ^member meeting him at a
well-known house during the
Midlothian campaign of 1885. He came in
to luncheon half an hour late, and was
rallied by the host upon his unpunctuality.
“You know,” he said, “only the other day
you lectured us upon the grace of punctuality
at luncheon-time.”

Mr. Gladstone took up this charge with
energy familiar at the time in the House of
Commons when repelling one of Lord
Randolph Churchill’s random attacks.
Finally, he drew from the host humble
confession that he had been in error, that
so far from recommending punctuality at
luncheon-time he had urged the desirability
of absence of formality at the meal. “ Any¬
one,” he said, “should drop in at luncheon
when they please and sit where they
please.”

Through the meal he was in the liveliest
humour, talking in his rich, musical voice.
After luncheon we adjourned to the library,
a room full of old furniture and precious
memorials, chiefly belonging to the Stuart
times. On the shelves were a multitude
of rare books. Mr. Gladstone picked up
one, and sitting on a broad window seat,
began reading and discoursing about it.
Setting out for a walk, he was got up in
a most extraordinary style. He wore a
narrow-skirted square-cut tail - coat, made,
I should say, in the same year as the
Reform Bill. Over his shoulders hung an
inadequate cape, of rough hairy cloth, once
in vogue but now little seen. On his head
was a white soft felt hat. The back view
as he trudged off at four-mile-an-hour pace
was irresistible.

Mrs. Gladstone watched over him like a
hen with its first chicken. She was always
pulling up his collar, fastening a button, or
putting him to sit in some particular chair
out of a draught. These little attentions Mr.
Gladstone accepted without remark, with
much the placid air a small and good-tempered
babe wears when it is being tucked in its
cot.

i66

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

\n oi d Session °f 1890, Mr.

" Gladstone rented a house in

house St * J amess Square, a big, roomy,
gloomy mansion, built when
George I. was King. On the pillars of
the porch stand in admirable preserva¬
tion two of the wrought iron extinguishers,
in which in those days
the link - boys used to
thrust their torches when
they had brought master
or mistress home, or
convoyed a dinner
guest. Inside hideous
light - absorbing flock
wall - papers prevailed.

One gained an idea,
opportunity rare in
these days, of the murki¬
ness amid which our
grandfathers dwelt.

Dining there one
night, I found the host
made up for all house¬
hold shortcomings. He
talked with unbroken
flow of spirits, always
having more to say on
any subject that turned
up, and saying it
better, than any expert
present. His memory
was as amazing as his
opportunities of acquir¬
ing knowledge had
been unique.

As we sat at table he, in his

AT A FOUR-MILE-AN-HOUR PACE.

MEMORIES
OF

CHILDHOOD.

eighty-first year, recalled, as if
it had happened the day before,
an incident that befell when
he was eighteen months old. Prowling
about the nursery on all-fours, there sud¬
denly flashed upon him consciousness of
the existence of his nurse, as she towered
above him. He remembered her voice and
the very pattern of the frock she wore.
This was his earliest recollection, his first
clear consciousness of existence. His
memory of Canning when he stood for
Liverpool in 1812 was perfectly clear ;
indeed, he was then nearly three years old,
and took an intelligent interest in public
affairs.

Of later date was his recollection of Parlia¬

mentary Elections, and the strange processes
by which in the good old days they were
accomplished. The poll at Liverpool was kept
open sometimes for weeks, and the custom
was for voters to be shut up in pens ten at a
time. At the proper moment they were led
out of these inclosures and conducted to the
polling - booths, where
they recorded their
votes. These musters
were called “ tallies,”
and the reckoning up
of them was a matter
watched with breathless
interest in the con¬
stituency.

It was a
doctoring point o f
a tally, keen com-
petition
which side should first
land a “ tally ” at the
polling-booth. Mr.
Gladstone told with
great gusto of an acci¬
dent that befell one in
the first quarter of the
century. The poll
opened at eight o’clock
in the morning. The
Liberals, determined to
make a favourable start,
marshalled ten voters,
and as early as four in
the morning filled the
pen by the polling-
booth. To all appearances the Conserva¬
tives were beaten in this first move. But
their defeat was only apparent. Shortly after
seven o’clock a barrel of beer, conveniently
tapped, with mugs handy, was rolled up
within hand-reach of the pen, where time
hung heavy on the hands of the expectant
voters. They naturally regarded this as a
delicate attention on the part of their
friends, and did full justice to their hospitable
forethought. After a while, consternation
fell upon them. Man after man hastily
withdrew till the pen was empty, and ten
Conservatives, waiting in reserve, rushed in
and took possession of the place.

“ The beer,” said Mr. Gladstone, laughing
till the tears came into his eyes, “ had been
heavily jalaped.”

^WINGr

< __BApGE

Edmund

• B/lAfU?'

MITCHELL

T was a sleepy little town, far
from the busy world, almost
hidden away in the back-
woods. During the long
summer days, small boys—
and sometimes grown - up
folks as well—hardly knew what to do to
pass the time. It was an event of some
importance, therefore, when one afternoon
Grizzly Jim, the trapper, brought to the
only hostelry the settlement could boast
a live badger. He carried it in a big
bag, and shook it out over the half-door
into the empty
stable, that the hotel-
keeper and his
friends might have
a look at the shy
and rarely - seen
animal. At that
hour there were
not many people
about, so when the
other half of the
stable door was
drawn to, and the
captive left alone,
the news of its
arrival was as yet
known only to a few.

Among these few,
however, was the
hotel - keeper’s son
Dick, a youngster
about twelve years
old, who had in¬
spected the badger
with keenest interest and a critical eye. He
had also listened to every word of the con¬
versation between Grizzly Jim and his father,

“ HE SHOOK IT OUT OVER THE
HALF-DOOR.”

and had gathered that they were going to
pack up the beast in a box and send it off
next day by the railroad to a city, some
hundreds of miles distant, where all manner
of strange creatures were kept in cages in
a Zoo. So the badger would be lodged in
the hotel for one night only, and Dick
reflected that if any fun was to be got out
of “the comical cuss,” as he called it, there
was no time to be lost.

After a quarter of an hour’s solid thinking,
Dick went out into the stable yard and
dragged forth an old dog-kennel, which for a
long time had lain
disused in the wood¬
shed. He rubbed
it up a bit, plenti¬
fully littered it with
fresh straw, and then
set it down right in
the middle of the
yard. To the big
chain he attached
an old rusted iron
kettle, which he
pushed back into
the kennel among
the straw as far
as his arms could
reach. These
preparations
c o m p 1 e ted,
Dick thrust
his hands into
his trouser
pockets, and
set off down
the main
street, whist¬
ling a tune.

i68

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

At a little distance he met his most inti¬
mate chum, Billy Green, the wheelwright’s son.

“ Say, Billy,” said Dick, “ heard the
noos ?”

“ What noos ? ”

“Grizzly Jim’s bin an’ trapped a badger.”

“ Wal, that don’t count for much. Ain’t
anythink very ’xtrord’n’ry in his trappin’ a
badger, is there ? Comes reg’lar in his day’s
work, I reckon. Now, if it’d bin an
elephant or a gi-raffe ”—the speaker paused
to give full effect to his grin of sarcasm.

“ Oh ! bother yer elephants and yer
gi-raffes,” interrupted Dick, with impatience ;
“ I tell ye it’s a real live badger.”

“ A live one ? ” asked Billy, his interest
slightly stimulated.

“ Yes, a live one. I see’d it shaken out of
a bag. And it’s up now this very minute at
father’s.”

“Jee-whizz!” cried Billy, all on the hop
now with excitement. “ Then I s’pose they’re
goin’ to have a badger fight ? ”

“ A badger’fight! Who’re ye gettin’ at ? ”
retorted Dick, ironically.

“ Why, ther’ll be a badger fight with dogs,
of course. Don’t ye know, Dick, that a
badger, when his dander’s fairly riz, can fight
like a whole sackful of wild cats ? It’s rare
sport, badger-baitin’, I can tell ye, an’ jest the
real thing to try the stuff young dogs is made
of.”

“ Better’n rats ? ” asked Dick, in turn
growing excited at the vista of unexpected
possibilities opening out before him.

“ Rats ain’t in it with badgers,” replied
Billy, disdainfully.

“Then I ’spect Grizzly Jim’s gone down
town to hunt up some dogs,” suggested Dick.

“ Certain sure.”

“ Wal, hadn’t you best come to our place
right now, an’ have a good look at the critter
’fore the crowd begins to roll up ? ”

“ I guess there’s some sense in that. Let’s
skoot along, Dick.”

So the two boys set off at a quick pace
towards the hotel. And as they walked
Dick described the badger’s points.

“ He’s got short stumpy legs, Billy, but
terrible claws. Rip a dog open like winkin’.”

“ And pooty sharp teeth too, I reckon ? ”

“ I should jest say. Wouldn’t like’m try
’em in my leg.”

“ See you’ve got’m in the old dog-kennel,”
remarked Billy, as they came in sight of the
stable yard.

“ It’s a strong chain that, you know,”
replied Dick, evasively. “ Bruno, the old
boarhound that died, couldn’t break it.”

“ Guess the chain’ll hold the badger all
right. But I can’t see nothink of’m in that
there dog-hutch. I’ll want ter have’m out,
Dick, in the open.”

“You’d best take care, Billy,” cried Dick,
as his companion laid hold of the chain.

“ Remember his claws.”

“ Oh ! I’m not ’feard, you bet,” replied
Billy, loftily. “ It needs somethin’ more’n a
badger to skeer me. Besides, he can’t
scratch or bite much through my leggin’s.”

“ Mind, Billy,” continued Dick, with an
intensely anxious look on his face. “ I’ve
warned ye. Don’t ye come a hollerin’ an’ a
blamin’ me, if he takes a bit out of yer
leg.”

“ Poof ! You keep back if ye’r fright’ned.
Let me alone. I’ll soon yank ’m inter day¬
light.” And Billy made ready to haul at the
chain. “ Come out o’ that, ye brute,” he
cried. “ Yo ! ho ! out ye come ! ” And he
pulled with all his might.

There was a fine old clatter as the iron
kettle came clinkety-clink-clank on to the
cobble stones; and Dick just lay down on
the ground, fairly doubled up with laughing.

“Look out, Billy,” he yelled amidst his
convulsions of glee, “ look out. That badger
’ll bite ye through yer leggin’s.”

For a minute Billy was speechless. He
felt so sick and faint-hearted that ordinary
common-place language would have been an
insult to his feelings. “ You tarnation fraud ! ”
he at last managed to gasp, as he glanced
from the battered kettle at his feet towards
his spluttering friend.

But merriment is infectious, and the
supreme ridiculousness of his position
appealed to Billy’s sense of humour. So the
flushed, angry look passed by imperceptible
degrees into a sickly smile, and the smile at
last became transformed into a broad grin.
Then Billy sat down on the kettle, and
laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

All of a sudden Dick recovered his gravity.
“ Quick, Billy,” he cried, “ shove the kettle
back. Here’s the schoolmaster cornin’ ’long
the street.”

With a more rapid flash of understanding
than he had ever shown for a new rule in
arithmetic, Billy grasped the situation, and
pushed the kettle into the kennel out of
sight. The boys stood together, just as
smug and quiet as if they were setting out
for Sunday-school.

“ Billy,” said Dick, wishful to put matters
right now* that the victim of his joke had
become his confederate for future operations,
“ I didn’t tell a lie. There’s a live badger in

169

DRA WING

the stable as true as I’m standin’ here. But
I never said ’twas in the kennel.”

Billy, however, was intent only on the
business in hand. The prospect of sport
caused the personal humiliation of a minute
ago to be forgotten. There was no need,
nor time, for explanations.

“ Whish! Stow all that,” he whispered,
eagerly. “ Let’s meet’m at the gate.”

The two conspirators sauntered towards
the entrance to the yard, as the schoolmaster,
an elderly, grave-faced man, drew near to the
stable buildings.

“Good day, sir,” said Billy, as both
youngsters jerked their hands towards their
caps awkwardly, but none the less deferen¬
tially.

“Ah! how do you do, boys?” responded
the teacher, coming to a halt and bestowing
a pleasant nod of recognition on his pupils.
“ I hope you are enjoying your holidays ? ”

“ I HOl’E YOU ARK ENJOYING YOUli HOLIDAYS?”

“Yes, sir, first class,” replied Dick. Then
Billy boldly opened the campaign. “ Please,
Mr. Brown, do you know the difference
between a mountain badger and a prairie
badger ? ”

“ I fancy I do, my lad. The one’s darker
than the other.”

“ Well, sir, I lick’s father’s had a live badger
brought to him by Grizzly Jim, and we don’t
know which kind it is.” Billy skated very
cleverly pn the thin ice of truth.

“Just let me have a sight of the animal,”
said the schoolmaster. At the same moment

Vol. xvii,—22,

1 BADGER.

he followed the direction of Dick’s look,
and there and then fell unsuspectingly into
the trap prepared for him. “ Ah ! I see
you’ve got him chained up in the kennel,”
he remarked, as he stepped into the stable
yard.

“ Do badgers bite ? ” asked Dick, evading
the issue with splendidly assumed innocence.

“ Oh ! they don’t show their teeth much,
unless they’re badgered,” replied Mr. Brown,
with a laugh, thoroughly pleased with himself
at having been able to perpetrate a little
joke. “ Let’s have him out, boys. I’ll soon
tell whether he’s a mountain badger or a
prairie badger.”

Dick and Billy hung back, apparently
fearful of approaching too near to the kennel.

“ Don’t be afraid, myjads,’ 5 continued the
master, in an encouraging way. “ He’s all
at the end of a chain. See: I’ll pull
out for you. Ya ! hoop ! Out you come,
my fine fellow.”

And the schoolmaster lugged at the
chain ; and clinkety-clink-clank came the
iron kettle on to the cobble stones.

No respect for either age or authority
could restrain the boys from going off
into a fit of laughter. Their teacher’s
face was a study ; its look of blank
amazement would have made a wooden
totem - pole hilarious. But they were
relieved in mind, all the same, when a
smile, even though a grim one, stole over
the stern, pallid features of the man who
had it in his power to make the lives of
wayward boys utterly miserable.

“ It’s lucky for you young rascals that
this is holiday time,” remarked the school¬
master, drily. “I’ve got a tawse in my
desk that can bite a good deal sharper
than this badger.” Then, in spite of a
momentary feeling of resentment, he
joined in the laugh against himself.

“ Please, sir,” explained Dick, partly in
a spirit of penitence, but mainly with a
view to mitigate the offence, “the live
badger that Grizzly Jim brought father is in
the stable right enough. It was you yourself
that went straight for the kennel.”

“That’s so,” replied the schoolmaster,
stroking his beard meditatively. “ I should
have remembered the maxim of the copy¬
books, ‘Think before you leap.’ Well, we’re
all liable to make mistakes, I suppose—even
parsons,” he added, after a pause, and sinking
his voice almost to a whisper. He was
gazing now down the street, with a far-away
look in his countenance.

The boys shot a quick glance in the same

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

170

direction. A stout, pompous-looking little
man, with black coat and white collar, was
in sight.

“The parson’s an erudite Doctor of
Divinity,” continued the schoolmaster, speak¬
ing low, and in an absent-minded fashion.
“ He’s had all the advantages of a college
education — a fact which he knows, and
takes care to let other people know. A
man of learning is the parson, and a great
authority on natural history.”

The boys did not hear, nor exactly under¬
stand, every word spoken ; but the last
sentence fell clearly on their ears, and the
looks they exchanged indicated the dawning
of intelligence.

“ Yes; I wonder,” murmured the peda¬
gogue, reflectively, “ I really wonder, now,
whether the parson could tell the difference
between a mountain badger and a prairie
badger.”

“ By golly! ” screamed Billy, in frantic
excitement at the full flash of comprehen¬
sion. “Jam the kettle back into the kennel,
Dick. Don’t say a word, Mr. Brown • please
don’t. Leave him to us.”

The schoolmaster, chuckling to himself,
began to examine a rose-bush growing against
the wall. Soon the parson was at the gate.

“ Good evening, Mr. Brown,” he called
out.

“ Good evening,” mumbled the teacher,
hardly daring to look up from the roses.

“ What have we here ? ” continued the
clergyman, observing the unwonted position
of the kennel, and also noticing the flurried
look on the boys’ faces. “ What have we
here? ” he repeated, coming forward into the
yard.

“Please, sir,” began Dick, a dig in the ribs
from Billy having warned him that it was his
turn to open fire. “Grizzly Jim’s brought
father a real live badger.”

“ A badger, and a live one ! Well ? ”

“ And schoolmaster don’t seem to be able
to tell whether it’s a mountain badger or a
prairie badger,” added Dick, with a grin,
adroitly bringing the third confederate into
the field of action.

“ Didn’t you examine the teeth, Mr.
Brown?” asked the parson. “The colour
of the fur is no real test, you know.”

“ I can’t say I’ve looked at its teeth,”
replied the teacher, with a somewhat ghastly
smile. He had not bargained for being any¬
thing more than a passive witness of the
parson’s discomfiture, but here he was now,
by Dick’s act of unblushing treachery, thrust
into the position of an active accomplice.

“ Well, we must ascertain the animal’s
dentition. You see, in a mountain badger,
which is more carnivorous than the prairie
variety, the canine teeth are more fully
developed.” As the schoolmaster had said,
the parson was assuredly a learned man, and
an authority on natural history, to have all
this information so readily at his command.

“But how are you going to look at his
teeth ? ” asked Billy, practically. “ I reckon
badgers bite.”

“ I’ll soon show you, my boy,” replied the
parson, with a patronizing smile. “ He’s in
this kennel, is he ? ”

Billy’s only response was a smile of satis¬
faction like that worn by the cat when he
spied that the door of the canary’s cage had
been left open. But the clergyman did not
wait for an answer, for, turning directly to
Dick, he asked the boy whether he could find
him some such thing as a piece of sacking.

“ I guess I can,” responded Dick, darting-
off like a shot towards the stables. Within
the minute he was back with an old corn-bag.
The parson was in the act of turning up his
coat-sleeves, and was still discoursing learnedly
upon the carnivorous and frugivorous tastes
of the different species of the plantigrade
family. The schoolmaster was listening
attentively, speaking not one word: his
attitude was a deferential one, or a guilty one,
according to the observer’s point of view.

“That will do first class, my boy,” said the
minister, taking the sack from Dick’s hands.
“Now, you two lads, pull the chain gently,
and I’ll get this round the badger as he
emerges from the kennel. We must look
out for his claws, you know, as well as for his
teeth ; because the badger, being a burrowing
animal, is armed with long sharp claws, which
he also adapts to purposes of self-defence,
using them with great courage and effect
when attacked. Slowly now, boys ; cautious
does it. Here he comes ! There you are !
I have him all safe ! ”

And the parson, as a heap of accumulating
straw began to appear at the mouth of the
kennel, pushed in the sack, and wrapped it
tightly round the black object beyond.

“ Pull now again, boys; gently. That’s
right. Now he’s out.”

Then the parson paused, and looked a bit
puzzled. “ This badger must have been
injured, surely. He doesn’t show much
fight.” Saying these words, he proceeded to
cautiously raise one corner of the sacking.
“ Whoa ! now ; steady. No snapping, you
brute,” continued the parson, in a purring,
conciliatory voice, as he slowly lifted the bag.

DRAWING A BADGER.

The spout of the iron kettle met his dum-
foundered gaze !

Dick and Billy were by this time hiding
behind the water-barrel, stuffing handkerchiefs
into their mouths. The schoolmaster looked
down with a glee¬
ful grin it was
impossible to re¬
press.

“ What is the
meaning of this,

Mr. B r o w n ? ”
sputtered the
parson, rising to
his feet. The
flush on his face
was due less to
resentment than
to wounded pride.

“ It just means,

Mr. Blinkers, that
these young
scamps first fooled
me, and for the
life of me I can’t
deny but I’ve en¬
joyed their pass¬
ing the joke on
to you.”

The schoolmaster laughed outright, but
the parson still looked painfully self-conscious.

“ The miserable little prevaricators ! ” he
muttered.

“No,” said the teacher, “you can’t call
them that. The boys haven’t spoken a word
that’s untrue, because the badger, I believe,
is actually in the stable over there. In
taking it for granted that the beast was in
this kennel, we rushed to conclusions, and
have had to pay the penalty.”

The mortified expression on the parson’s
face became somewhat softened. He gazed
in a half-rueful, half-amused way at the old iron
kettle, still partially covered by the sacking.

“ To think that I was led into talking
about the dentition of that—-that—infernal
thing,” he sighed. “ Oh ! it would need a
layman to express my feelings,” he added,
clenching his fists as if in impotent despair,
while with a feeble smile he glanced at the
schoolmaster.

“ Well,” laughed the latter, “ strong lan¬
guage isn’t in my line any more than yours,
Mr. Blinkers, so I’m afraid I can’t oblige. 1
fancy, however, that if ever again anyone
asks you or me the • difference between a
mountain badger and a prairie badger we’ll
be just a trifle shy at answering—eh, my
friend ? ”

NO SNAPPING, YOU BRUTE,’ CONTINUED THE PARSON.

The parson laughed outright; the fit
of dudgeon was finally past. And when
the two men left the stable yard arm-in¬
arm, the mischief-makers, who still remained
discreetly invisible, could see the backs and

shoulders of both
of them fairly
shaking with
laughter.

Round the
corner, the
schoolmaster and
the minister met
the hotel-keeper
standing at the
front door of his
hostelry; and with
the greatest good
humour in the
world they told
him the story.
The joke was
really too excel¬
lent to keep;
moreover, it was
sure to go the
round of the
whole town be¬
fore the world was
many hours older, so that the victims con¬
sulted their own personal comfort best by
leading off the inevitable laugh, and so, in a
measure at least, disarming ridicule.

“The whipper-snappers!” said the burly
host, hardly knowing at first whether to
condole with the dignitaries of church and
school or to indulge the merriment that was
bubbling up within him.

“ Boys will be boys,” remarked the parson,
condescendingly.

“ And the trick was cleverly done,” added
the schoolmaster, appreciatively. He was
in reality too overjoyed at his own success
in having hauled the parson into the
pillory alongside of him to feel any resent¬
ment.

“ Oh ! well, we do need a laugh sometimes
in this dull place,” replied the hotel-keeper,
allowing the broad smile hitherto repressed
to suffuse his rubicund countenance. But
he kept his mirth within moderate bounds so
long as the others were in hearing. When
they were gone, however, loud and long was
his laughter.

“ Dick, the little cuss !” he cried, slapping
his thigh. “And Billy, that young varmint!
It’ll tickle his dad to death when he hears it.
To fool the schoolmaster showed a bit of
pluck. But to take down the passon oh,

r 7-

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

lor ! ” And the jolly innkeeper laughed till
his sides ached.

After a little time Grizzly Jim slouched
into the bar, and the story was retailed for
his benefit. The old trapper laughed heartily,
although in the silent way his profession had
taught him.

“ Blame my skin ! ” he exclaimed, “ if it
ain’t the foxiest thing in the snarin’ line I’ve
struck for a long time. But I reckon, boss,
I’ll take a hand now in this ’ere game.
You fix up an excuse to git the youngsters
out of the yard for ten minutes, and I
reckon I’ll make ’em skin their eyes with
’mazement next time they yank out that
badger.”

Jim sauntered round the front of the
house, while the host went direct to the
stable yard. He found the two boys in close
confabulation near the dog-kennel; and he
also quietly observed that the kettle was again
inside, so that the trap was clearly baited for
the next victim that might chance to come
around.

“ Halloa, Billy ! ” cried the hotel-keeper,
apparently unobservant of the fact that the
kennel was not in its usual place, and quite
ignorant of the game that was being played ;
“ can you help 1 )ick eat some apples ? ”

“Can a duck swim?” asked the youngster,
perkily, by way of reply. Every urchin in
the place was on terms of easy familiarity
with mine host of the inn.

“ Then round you come, the pair of you,
to the orchard.” And for the next quarter
of an hour the boys’game was changed —
badgers were out and apples were in.

Meanwhile Grizzly Jim was losing no time.
When he saw the coast clear, he walked up
the yard and entered the stable. There he
dexterously caught the badger by the nape
of the neck ; it was not a full-grown animal,
and the experienced trapper had no difficulty
in handling it. He carried it out at arm’s
length, the beast clawing the air vigorously
but vainly. Reaching the kennel, J im quickly
substituted the badger for the kettle at the
end of the chain. Then, when the captive
had retreated to the furthest recess of its new
quarters, he carefully re-arranged the straw
litter ; and, tossing the discarded kettle into
the wood-shed, sauntered away with a sar¬
donic grin on his sun-dried countenance.
He crossed the street to the grocery store
opposite, whence he could command a view
of the yard.

A few minutes later the boys, their pockets
stuffed full of apples, returned to the scene
of their exploits, followed at a little distance

by the hotel-keeper. The latter wore a look
of good-humoured expectancy ; for, although
he did not know precisely what the trapper’s
plans were, he felt sure that there was fun in
near prospect. I )ick was busy munching an
apple and cogitating how it would be possible
to victimize his father, when his eye caught
sight of Grizzly Jim crossing the street from
the grocery store with a big box on his
shoulders.

“ 1 guess, dad, here’s Jim a-comin’ to take
that badger away,” remarked the boy, indicat¬
ing by means of the half-eaten apple in his
hand the lanky figure of the trapper.

“ Most likely,” answered his father, with a
merry twinkle in his eye.

Billy, however, had at once seen the possi¬
bilities of this new development, and his face
lit up instantly with all the keen excitement
of a fox-terrier in the act of pouncing on a
rat. “ We must take a rise out o’ Grizzly
Jim,” he whispered eagerly to his comrade in
mischief.

As for Jim, he seemed to play right into
the young rascals’ hands, for the first remark
he made was this: “ The schoolmaster has
jest bin sayin’, boys, that you’ve got my
badger in that ’ere dog-kennel.”

“Wal, and what if we have?” asked Billy,
boldly.

“ Oh ! I’m makin’ no complaint. But
here’s his box for the railroad, and I think
we’d best put him in it right now. P’raps
you’ll lend me a hand, youngsters ? ”

“Right you are, Jim,” cried both boys
with alacrity, advancing towards the kennel.

“ 1 )id jevver know sich luck ? ” asked Billy,
in a whisper, nudging his companion with
his elbow.

“ It’s ’nough to make a feller die with
laughin’,” chuckled Dick, under his breath.

“ Guess, then, yer not afeared o’ badgers,
you boys?” drawled Jim, setting down the
box.

“ Not badgers of this sort,” replied Billy,
with a grimace.

“ So you’ve found out this ’un’s only a
babby?” continued the trapper; “hasn’t got
all his teeth yet, eh, an’ couldn’t scratch very
hard if he tried ?” As Jim spoke he picked
up the slack of the chain, to the boys’ intense
delight.

“ I reckon the badger at the end o’ that
chain won’t hurt us much,” responded Billy,
airily. But Dick had to turn his face away
to hide the laughter with which he was now
almost bursting.

“ Wal, boys, if I pull ’m out, you’ll ketch
’m, will ye, an’ shove’m in the box?”

DRAWING A BADGER.

*73

“Right you are, Jim. You jest pull, and
we’ll grab.”

“ But p’r’aps you’d be safer to let me come
an’ help ye hold the critter,” added the
trapper, shaking his head doubtfully.

“ Help be blowed,” cried Billy. “ I reckon
we don’t need no help to manage this ’ere
outfit, eh, Dick ? ” And the boys laughed in
each other’s faces, as they carried the box
close up to the kennel, and opened the lid
in readiness.

“ Right ye are, sonnies,” replied Jim.

ished eyes of Grizzly Jim, the boys fairly
flung themselves upon the black object at
the end of the chain.

Then there followed, oh ! such a yelling
and a screeching, such a snapping and a
snarling ! Dick rolled over Billy, and boys
and badger were mixed up in a squirming
heap.

“ Shall I come and help ye hold the
critter ? ” called out the trapper, cheerfully

“ No, but come and help us let him go,”
screamed Dick.

“ HOYS AND BADGER WERE MIXED UP IN A SQUIRMING HEAP.”

“ Have yer own way. But don’t ye forget I
gave ye fair warnin’.”

“ We can look after ourselves, you bet,”
answered Billy, impatiently. “ Jest you
haul away.”

“ Wal, here we go,” said Jim, a faint smile
showing on his thin lips. “ Grip him the
moment he shows his nose. Don’t be
frightened at the sight of his claws.”

The lads were stooping ready to grab at
the old iron kettle the moment it should
make its appearance. Both were chuckling
with glee. And the best of the joke was that
Grizzly Jim had brought the whole thing
right upon himself!

“Hoop, la!” cried Jim, and with a pull
that would have dragged a camel off its legs,
he jerked the occupant of the kennel into
the open.

In their eagerness as to who should hold
aloft the spurious badger before the aston-

“ My sakes ! ” roared Billy ; “ he’s got me
by the leg.”

But at this stage - Grizzly Jim came to the
rescue. The young badger was quickly
caught, and popped into the box, while the
disconcerted and crestfallen urchins struggled
to their feet.

“ Guess badgers are kind o’ more savage
beasties than ye reckoned on,” remarked the
trapper, with dry sarcasm.

“ No wonder the schoolmaster and the
passon were skeered,” laughed the hotel-
keeper, who had enjoyed the whole scene
from a little distance.

Then it dawned upon the youngsters how
neatly the tables had been turned on them ;
so, in spite of torn clothes and scratched
skins, they did their best like true sportsmen
to grin and look pleasant. But it will be
some time before they try to take another rise
out of Grizzly Jim.

A Common Crystal.

By John R. Watkins.

ARD to believe, but true. The
locomotive shown in the illus¬
tration below rests and runs
upon a lake of salt- a surface
almost as solid as the road¬
bed of a great passenger
system. The engine puffs to and fro all day
long on the snow-like crust, while a score of
steam-ploughs make progress with a rattling,
rasping noise, dividing the lake into long and
glittering mounds of salt, which are shovelled
by busy Indians on to the waiting cars. The
sun shines with almost overwhelming

Here in Salton, striking sights may be
seen in the full light of day. One gets
some little idea of them from the photo¬
graphs, but the general effect of this huge
natural store-house of commercial salt, its
enormous crystal lake, and its massive
pyramids of white awaiting shipment, can be
but partially conceived from our pictures.

To enter into a complete description of
the remarkable industry which transfers a
common crystal from a lake of brine to
the working-man’s table would be beyond
the limits of our magazine. It would

LOADING A TRAIN ON A LAKE OF SALT, IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.

[ Photograph.

power, and the dazzling carpet of salt
stretches away to the horizon, where it
disappears.

The scene is in Salton, in far-off Southern
California. Two months ago we described
a wonderful city of salt which for centuries
has existed below the surface of the earth.

involve a discussion of chemical symbols
and formulae which would make the printed
page a cryptograph. Better is it, briefly, to
say that much of the salt found in the
domestic salt-cellar comes from the water of
the sea, which, by evaporation, is turned
from liquid into snowy powder. In Salton

4 COMMON CRYSTAL.

T 75

Lake, which lies 280ft. below the sea level,
the brine rises in the bottom of the marsh
from numerous springs in the neighbouring
foot-hills, and, quickly evaporating, leaves
deposits of almost pure salt, varying from
ioin. to 2oin. in thickness, and thus forming
a substantial crust. The temperature ranges
from 120 to 150 degrees, and all the labour
is performed by Coahuilla Indians, who work
ten hours a day, and seem not in the least
to mind the enervating heat. In fact, these
Indians are so inured to the fatiguing work

that they are not affected by the dazzling
sunlight, which distresses the eyes of those
unaccustomed to it, and compels the use of
coloured glasses. One of these Indians may
be seen sitting on the steam-plough shown
on this page. He is one of a tribe of
large and well - developed men—peaceable,
civilized, sober, and industrious, living in
comfortable houses built by the New Liver¬
pool Salt Works, with tables, chairs, forks,
spoons, and many of the necessary articles of
domestic civilization. He guides his plough
over the long stretches of salt, running lightly
at first over the surface to remove any
vestiges of desert sand blown from far
away, and then setting the blade to run 6in.
deep in furrows 8ft. wide. Each plough
harvests daily over 700 tons of pure salt,
which is then taken to the mill to be ground
and placed in sacks. Scores of men assist
in the harvest by loading small “ dump-cars,”
or trollies, on portable rails, the cargo being
finally dumped on the large train or else
carried direct to the manufactory.

The interesting history of the salt industry
in California is largely associated with the
name of Plummer Brothers, who in 1864, in the
person of the late Mr. J. A. Plummer, made
the first genuine attempt to produce a first-class
domestic salt. The extensive and striking
premises of this noted firm in Centreville, Cali¬
fornia, are shown in the two illustrations on
the next page. Situated as the district is close
to the bay, the industry is dependent to a cer¬
tain extent upon the tides. The early spring
tides have little effect in drawing away the

impurities which the river-floods bring into
the bay; but the tides of June and July,
rising as they do to a height of 6ft. or 7ft.,
fill the marshes with a water fairly pure.
The salt-makers have prepared for this influx
of water by making reservoirs in large clay-
bottomed tracts of marsh land, and have
cleared them of weeds and grass. The
water flows in and fills the reservoirs to a
depth of from 15m. to i8in., and the gates
are then closed.

Like a large family, descending in size
from father to youngest son, the six or seven
evaporating ponds of a salt works appear.
The large reservoir, being the father of this
series of ponds, contains the gross amount of
brine, the last two or three, being called lime-
ponds, owing to the amount of gypsum, lime,
etc., precipitated at this stage of evaporation.
Not to go too deeply into chemistry, it may
be said that the brine lingers in the last of
these ponds until a density of 106 degrees is
obtained. The surface of the liquid is now
dotted by small patches of white which

“ftF

From aj

A SALT-PLOUGH AT WORK.

L I'htiLujruph.

176

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

accumulate into streaks of drift-salt. This
interesting development is shown in the illus¬
tration above, the streaks of salt looking like
patches of surf on the sands of the sea-shore.
The liquid is now run into crystallizing vats,

where it remains until the salt crystals have
formed at the bottom. It sometimes takes two
months for a crop of salt to develop. In harvest¬
ing, the workman, donning large, flat sandals
of wood, enters the vat with a galvanized

''d^u’v - ' : *§ : V

f £&Mk jfc •■S3

■_2M

Prom a Photo. &//]

SALT CRYSTALLIZING I’ONDS,

1 Mr. C. A. Plummer.

A COMMON CRYSTAL.

Vol. xvii.— 23.

Photo, from] salt-making in KAJPUTANA. [Rev. Henry Lansdell, D.l)., Blackheath.

178

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

shovel, and marks off on the
surface of the salt a series of
parallel lines. This process
enables the labourers to toss the
lumps into uniform piles. A
strict examination is made of
every shovelful, in order that
impurities may be eliminated.
Our illustrations show these coni¬
cal mounds of salt, and the
transfer of the salt by means of
barrels to large platforms, where
the crystal product is thrown
into huge pyramids, sometimes
25ft. high. Here it remains,
bleaching and solidifying for a
year. It is, indeed, a picturesque
sight. to see these ghost - like
pyramids grow in their might
from day to day.

Into the processes by which
these massive mounds of hardened
salt are crushed and distributed
to the markets, x we need not
enter; nor need we name the
varieties of salt which are so
distributed. We find something
more interesting in turning from
California to Central India, where
in Rajputana a tremendous
industry in salt is carried on,
and where we may see the same
little piles of salt that we have
noted in the previous illustra¬
tions.

In the background of the
large full-page picture, which
we have just passed, may be
seen colossal heaps of salt, and
in the foreground scores of men,
women, and children wading in
the vat of sluggish brine, from
which, by dint of constant effort,
emerge the little cones of white.
The overseers stand by to direct,
and the scene is one of tremen¬
dous interest and activity, punc¬
tuated by babble of voices. We
get a closer view of these cones
in our last illustration, in which
we find the coolies measuring
the height of the cones. One
thing we miss in these vistas of
barren whiteness — the sight of
the labour-saving machinery so
noticeable in our early illustra¬
tions. Is it an object-lesson in
the differences between East and
West ?

A Peep into “ Punch”

By J. Holt Schooling.

[The Proprietors oj “Punch ” have given special permission to reproduce the accompanying illustrations . This
is the first occasion when a periodical has been enabled to present a selection from Mr. Punch’s famous pages.]

Part II. — 1850 to 1854.

OME while ago, in the panto¬
mime “ Ali Baba and the
Forty Thieves,” Ali Baba’s
brother, who had found his
way into the secret cave, ran
about in a most ludicrous
manner eagerly picking from the floor
diamonds, rubies, and emeralds as big as
ostrich-eggs : as fast as he picked up another

OUR TRUANT AMBASSADORS.

ATF.LY the severeit
comment on the
folly of expen¬
sive Embassies at
forc«m Courts
has been passed
by a few of the
Ambassadors
themselves; who,
by their absence
from the scenes
of recent events
of importance
abroad, have vir¬
tually confessed
that they are
“better away”
when anything of
unusual interest
is happening. We
of course would
not tliink of ac¬
cusing these high
and distinguished
persons—these
“ members of the
great families”
—of voluntarily
shirking their

duty if they thought that their diplomatic services could he of auy service
whatever, and we can therefore only conclude they felt that they should
“do more harm than good” in their diplomatic capacities—or inca¬
pacities, as the case may he—had they remained at their posts during
late events of interest. The Eaiu. of Westmoreland, we are told bv
the Times, has been in London, as the best means of promoting British
interests at Berlin; while Lord Ponsonby— says the same authority—
our Ambassador of Vienna, has been serving his country by absence
from the scene of his duties.

Our Charge d'affaires at Bad-cn—the idea is a good-'un—has been
staying at Naples, and there have been other instances of our diplo¬
matists acting on the straightforward, but startling principle, that,
though paid very highly to represent England at a Foreign Court, they
are much better “omitted in the representation" when anything of
particular urgency or of unusually vital iuterest is happening. If it is
found that absence enhances the value of Ambassadors, how much
more economical it would be to keep them always away from their
posts—an arrangement which would have the double advantage of
being much cheaper as well as more satisfactory. The hint is one
which we have no doubt Mr. Cobi>f.n and other financial reformers
will be able to improve upon. It would be a curious calculation could
the qiiestion be solved—if peace should be preserved in the absence of
the diplomatists from their posts, what would havo been the conse¬
quence had they remained at their embassies r

I.—THIS INITIAL LETTER “l” IS SIR JOHN TENNIEL’s FIRST

“punch” drawing; November 30, 1850.

gem he let one fall from his already loaded
arms. I laughed at Ali Baba’s brother, but
did not feel sympathetic.

Now, I do not laugh, and I do feel sym¬
pathetic with A. B.’s brother—for in choosing
these pictures from Punch , one no sooner
picks out a gem, with an “ I’ll have you?
than on the turn of a page a better picture
comes, and the other has to be dropped.
It goes as much against my grain to leave
such a host of good things hidden in Punch
as it went against the covetous desires of

Ali Baba’s wicked brother to leave so many
fine big gems behind him in the richly-stored
cave. However, Mr. Punch’s whole store of
riches is, after all, accessible to anyone whose
Open Sesame ! is a little cheque, ‘ and so
one has some consolation for being able
to show here only a very small selection from
Mr. Punch’s famous gallery of wit and art
which that discerning connoisseur has been
collecting during the last sixty years.

The year 1850 was a notable one for
Punch , for then John Tenniel joined the
famous band of Punchites. His first contri¬
bution is shown in No. 1, the beautiful initial
letter L with the accompanying sketch,
which, although it is nearly fifty years old,
and is here in a reduced size, yet distinctly
shows even to the non-expert eye the touch
of that same wonderfuM-rand^which in this
week’s Punch (November 26th, 1898) drew
the cartoon showing Britannia ^an 4 ^ the
United States as two blue-jackets in.^JovtaF
comradeship under the sign of the “Two
Cross Flags,” with jolly old landlord Putich
saying to them, “ Fill up, my hearties ! It
looks like ‘ dirty weather ’ ahead, but you
two John and Johnathan — will see it
through — together ! ”

Glancing at Nos. 2 and 3—Leech’s sketch
in No. 3 is, by the way, a truthfully graphic
reminder to the writer of the first time

Boy. "Coue ik, Sir! You’ve no call to be afraid! I’ve got uim quite tight.”

2.— JUSTIFIABLE HESITATION. 1850.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

180

A FRIEND HAS GIVEN MR. BRIGGS A DAY’S SHOOTING.

A Cock Pheasant gets rr, and Mr. Briggs's impression is, that a vert large Firework has been let orr close to him.
He is almost frightened to death.

3.—BY LEECH. 1850.

he [unexpecting] heard and saw a strong
Cornish cock-pheasant get up close at his
feet—we come to No. 4, which
represents the British Lion (as
taxpayer) looking askance, at the
Prince of Wales, "aged nine, on
whose behalf application had
just been made for the purchase
of Marlborough House as a resi¬
dence for the Prince. The
portly man in the picture on
the wall is a former Prince of
Wales, the Regent who became
George IV. in 1820, and who
is here seen walking by the
Pavilion at Brighton, built in
1784-87 as a residence for
Prince of Wales.

No. 5 is very funny, and it
is one of the many Punch jokes
which are periodically served up
afresh in other periodicals. I
have read this joke somewhere
quite lately, although it came
out in Punch nearly fifty years
ago.

On this score, does anyone
know if the following is a Punch
joke ? It was lately told to me
as a new joke, but I was afraid
to send it to Mr. Punch : -

Two London street - Arabs.

One is eating an apple, the
other gazes enviously, and says,

“ Gi’e us a bite, Bill.” “Sha’n’t,”
says the apple-eater. “ Gi’e us
the core, then,” entreats the
non-apple-eater. “ There ain’t

goin to be no core ! ” stolidly
replies the other, out of his
stolidly munching jaws.

The very clever drawing
No. 6 is by Richard Doyle;
it was published in 1850,
and at the close of that
year Doyle left Punch
owing to Punch’s vigorous
attack on “ Popery the
Popery, scare got hold of
the public mind in 1849,
and for some while Punch
published scathing cartoons
against Roman Catholi¬
cism. 1 )oyle being of that
faith resigned his position
and a good income through
purely conscientious mo¬
tives. Although I )oyle left
in 1850 his work was seen
in Punch as lately as 1864, for when he re¬
signed some of his work was then unpublished.

THE ROYAL RISING GENERATION.

Bt iiith Lion. “ Too want Mar’boro’ Hoc*:, and roue Stables !!—Why, roc ’ll be wasting a Latch Key

next, I 8LTP0SE !! "

4.—THE PRINCE OF WALES AT AGE NINE. BY LEECH, 1850.

PUNCH.

181

A PEEP INTO “

This funny illustration of “A meeting to
discuss the principles of Protection and Free
Trade” was an outcome of the intensely

bitter feeling between the partisans of both
sides which marked the carrying-on by Lord
John Russell of the system established by
Sir Robert Peel in 1846 for throwing open our
market-doors to free trade with foreign nations.

No. 7 is one of the minor hits at “ Papal

7. —THE APPARITION. 1650.

Aggression ” made by Punch fifty years ago,
and it is irresistibly funny.

A MEETING TO DISCUSS THE PRINCIPLES OF PROTECTION AND FREE TRADE.

If we an- lo judge by the reports of the meetings now being I or self-protection of & decided character. 1 hat the Protectionists I out, the Letter way would beforaebampion on each side to take up

held in different, part* of the country, the kiud of Protection and free traders arc determined on making a tight for their re- and put on the gloves, so that,after a fair contest, the combatants

most needed at these assemblies is the protection of tho police, | spective cause is quite evident. If the question is (0 be fought | might remain hand and glove on friendly terms for the future.

6.— BY RICHARD DOYLE. 1850,

lS2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

8.—THIS IS SIR JOHN TENNIEL’S FIRST CARTOON \ FEBRUARY 8, 1851.

LORD JACK THE GIANT KILLER

the world has pro¬
duced :—

Had the Pope not “aggressed”
by appointing archbishops and
bishops to English sees [This
caused all the exaggerated
pother and flutter of 1849.—
J. II. S. ], and so raised the scare
of which Lord John Russell and
Mr. Punch really seem to have
been the leaders, Doyle would
not have resigned, and no open¬
ing would have been made for
Tenniel.

Sir John, indeed, was by no
means enamoured of the pros¬
pect of being a Punch artist,
when Mark Lemon [the editor
in 1850.—J. H. S.] made his
overtures to him. He was rather
indignant than otherwise, as his
line was high art, and his severe
drawing above “fooling.” “Do
they suppose,” he asked a friend,
“ that there is anything funny
about me ? ” He meant, of
course, in his art, for privately
he was well recognised as a
humorist ; and little did he
know, in the moment of hesita¬
tion before he accepted the
offer, that he was struggling
against a kindly destiny.

Thus we may say that
the “Popish Scare” of fifty
years ago was a main cause
of the Tenniel cartoons in
the Punch of to-day.

The picture in No. 9,

Sir John Ten-
niel’s first cartoon
is shown in No. 8.
It represents Lord
John Russell as
•David, backed by
Mr. Punch and by
John Bull, attack¬
ing Cardinal Wise¬
man as Goliath,
who is at the head
of a host of Roman
Catholic arch¬
bishops and
bishops. A very
interesting men¬
tion is made by
Mr. Spielmann, in
his “ History of
Punch,” of the cir¬
cumstances which
caused Tenniel to
join Punch , and
to become the
greatest cartoonist

9. —ILLUSTRATING THE CONNECTION BY ELECTRIC CABLE BETWEEN ENGLAND AND FRANCE.

BY LEECH, 1851.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

})

i S 3

“ The New Siamese Twins,”
celebrates the successful
laying of the submarine
cable between Dover and
Calais, November 13, 1851:
the closing prices of the
Paris Bourse were known
within business hours of the
same day on the London
Stock Exchange. The use
by Leech of the words in
the title, “ Siamese Twins,”
refers to the visit to this
country of a Barnum-like
natural monstrosity—a
pair of twins whose bodies
were joined—a freak that

SKETCH OF THE PATENT STREET-SWEEPING MACHINE'S
LATELY INTRODUCED AT PARIS.

Taken on the Spot (A, the Spot) by our own Artist.

(Who bein? naturally rather a nervous man, confesses that the
peculiarity of his position certainly did make him feel a little shaky:
and, looking at his sketch, we think our readers will not be disinclined
to believe him.) _

IO.—THIS IS CHARLES KEENE’S FIRST “PUNCH” DRAWING;
DECEMBER 20, 1851.

was also the origin of a toy sold in later
years with the same title. In the year 1851

F F,7> v”™ M,L U Tn,S ™' W * T T0 ° Ft “ «*- ««» Census 1

so you call Yourself the ‘Head or tub Family’—do you—and mb a ‘ Female t’”

FELLING UP THE CEN8U8 PAFEB.

SUBJECT FOB A PICTURE.—IRRITABLE GENTLEMAN DISTURBED BY BLUEBOTTLE

Punch secured another of its most famous
artists—Charles Keene—whose first contri¬
bution is shown in No. io.

This sketch has little of a joke in it—the

13.—AN INCIDENT OF THE 1851 CENSUS.

shakiness of drawing is inten¬
tional [see the description given
in No. 10], and the following
account of this poor little pic¬
ture, so interesting as the first
by Keene, is given by Mr. G.
S. Layard in his “ Life and
Letters of Charles Samuel
Keene ”:—

In 1848, Louis Napoleon had been
elected to the French Presidency. . . ;
1849 witnessed the commencement of
those violent political struggles which
were the forerunners of internal con¬
spiracies ; and 1851 saw this practical
anarchy suddenly put a stop to by the
famous, or infamous, coup dctat of
December 2nd.

Towards the end of that month a
very modest wood-cut, bearing the

II. — BY LEECH. 1851.

18 4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

FIRST DESIGN.

SECOND DESIGN.

THIRD DESIGN.

legend “ Sketch of
the Patent Street¬
sweeping Machines
lately introduced at
Paris ” appeared on
p. 264 of “ Mr.
Punch’s ” journal. It
represented a couple
of cannon drawn with
the waviest of out¬
lines, and the letter
“A” marked upon
the ground directly
in their line of fire
[see No. 10.—J. II.
S.]

This was the first
appearance of Keene’s
pencil in the pages
which he was des¬
tined to adorn with
increasing frequency
as time went on for
nearly forty years.
The sketch is un¬
signed. Indeed, it
was only at the urgent
request of his friend,
Mr. Silver, in whose
brain the notion had
originated, that the
drawing was made,
the artist bluntly ex¬
pressing his opinion
that the joke was a
mighty poor one.

Pictures 11 to
13 bring us to
No. 14, which
contains small fac¬
simile reproduc¬
tions of the six
designs on the
front of th tPinich-
wrapper, which
preceded the well-
known design by
Richard Doyle,
now used every
week. These little
pictures have
been made direct
from the original
Punch - wrappers
in my possession,
as it was found
impossible to get
satisfactory prints
in so small a size
as these from the
much larger
blocks that
Messrs. Cassell
and Company

SIXTH DESIGN.

14..—jir, FUNCH’s il WARDROBE OF Ol.D COATS.” BEING THE SIX DESIGNS FOR THE FRONT PAGE OF THE WRAPPER QR

“ PUNCH ” WHICH preceded THE DESIGN now in use.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCHA

'*5

very kindly lent to me,
impressions from which
can be seen by readers
who may like to study
the detail of these de¬
signs in Mr. Spiel man n’s
“ History of Punch,”
which contains a full
account of them. Inci¬
dentally, it is interesting
to note that when these
designs were made it
would have been im¬
possible to obtain from
them the excellent re¬
duced facsimiles now
shown, which, by the
way, have only now been
obtained after several
attempts — as each of
these pretty little pic¬
tures has been reduced
from the full size of the
Ordinary Punch- page.

The first design was
made in 1841 by A. S. Henning, Mr. Punch’s
first cartoonist. In the early years of Punch
the design for the wrapper was changed for
each half-yearly volume, and early in 1842
the second design was
adopted : this was drawn
by Hablot K. Browne
(“ Phiz ”), who worked for
Punch during 1842-1844,
leaving Punch in 1844,
because the paper could
not at that time stand the
financial strain of the two
big guns, Leech and
“ Phiz.” H. IC. Browne
went back to Mr. Punch
in later years, and Mr.

Spiel man n has recorded
that this “ brave worker,
who would not admit his
stroke of paralysis, but
called it rheumatism, could
still draw when the pencil
was tied to his fingers and
answered the swaying of
his body.”

The third wrapper is by
William Harvey, and was
used for Vol. III. of Punch
in the latter part of 1842.

The artist “ spread con¬
sternation in the office by
sending in a charge of
twelve guineas ” for this

Vol, xyii.—24 :

third wrapper — twelve
guineas being, by the
way, nearly one-half of
the total capital with
which Punch was started
in 1841.

'The fourth wrapper
was designed by Sir
John Gilbert, whose
work {oxPunch, although
greatly intermittent, and
small in quantity, was
spread over a longer
period than that of any
other Punch artist—save
Sir John Tenniel. This
wrapper covered the first
part of 1843, and it was
used until recent years
as the pink cover of
Punch's monthly parts.

The fifth wrapper is
by Kenny Meadows—
you can just see his
signature on the lower
rim of the drum—and it was used in the
latter part of 1843. Then, in January, 1844,
Richard Doyle, Mr. Punch’s latest recruit,
was employed to design the new wrapper—
the sixth of our illustra¬
tion No. 14. This design
was used until January,
1849, an d then Doyle
made the alterations which
distinguish this sixth wrap¬
per from the one now in
use and which has been
used ever since.

A little boy’s advice to
his grandfather is illus¬
trated by Leech in No. 15,
and No. 16 suggests an
added horror of war. The
humorous prospectus in
No. 17 concludes with
the words

Something turns up every clay
to justify the most sanguine ex¬
pectation that an El Dorado
has really been discovered. In
the meantime, the motto of the
Company is “Otium Sine
Dig. 55 [Ease without dignity ].
Applications for Shares to be
made immediately to the above
addresses, as a preference will
be shown to respectable people.

By the way, when Mr.
Punch wrote this skit
about “Gold in England,”
he and his public wer§

SOUND ADVICE.

Master Tom. " Have a V’-.ed, Gra.Vpa !”

Oran’pa. “ A what I S;l I ’»

Matter Tom. “A Weed!—A Cigar, TOU KNOW.'’

Gran'pa . u Certainly not, Sir. I never smoked tn mt Life. 1 *
Master Tom . “An t then I wouldn't advise you to begin/’

IS.—BY LEECH. 1852.

ARMY INTELLIGENCE.

- ’t Club, December 31,1851.

Sin Cassias Cream presents his compliments to Mr. Punch, and, as
a military man, begs to offer a remark wh'ch may be useful in prevent ins
much idle discussion on the part of civilians. There have been, lately,
several very absurd paragraphs done by the newspaper people respecting
the large hair caps worn by Grenadiers, calculated to bring that part of
their uniform into ridicule and disuse. Perhaps, neither Mr. Punch,
nor an enlightened British public, arc aware that the article in question
happens to be one of the most formidable means that our army employs
to strike terror in the ranks of an enemy. Not to take up too much of
Mr. Punch's space (which, by-the-bye, Sir C. C. may be pardoned for
observing, might be occupied more appropriately than by the discussion
of questions concerning which Mr. P. can know nothing,) the fact is,
that the caps of the Grenadiers, upon the same ingenious principle that
Chinese shields are painted with hideous faces, were designed to
alarm, confuse, and paralyse the efTorts of the foe • and, when Mr. Punch
is told that, in close fighting, each man of the gallant Grenadiers places
his cap on the point of his bayonet and shouts BO! at the top of his
voice, the panic may be more easily imagined than described. Sir C.
Cnv.AM thinks that even a newspaper press must admit that it is not
such a i -cry useless appendage, after all.

PnorosED Shields for the British Grenadier.

1 . 6 ,—TO TERRIFY THE ENEMY. 1852.

186

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

alike unaware
that gold is
really in this
country—gold
ore worth

15,000 was
dug up in 1894
out of this
country : 1894
being the most
recent year for
which I have
the official re¬
turn of mining.

No. 18 de¬
picts a moment
of half-delight¬
ful, half - awe-

A PICTURE.

Showing nlut Mas ter Tom did after See-ing a Pan-to-mimc—But you would not do so—Ob, Dear no!—
Bc-cauae you ore a good Boy.__

l8.— BY LEECH. 1853.

a mournful
pose one of
Tenniel’s
splendid Brit¬
ish lions that
have intermit¬
tently during
so many years
been a promi¬
nent feature of
his cartoons.

No. 20 is by
“ C u t h b e r t
Bede” [the
Reverend Ed¬
ward Bradley],
the author of

GOLD IN ENGLAND!!!

THE PRIMROSE-HILL GOLD AND SILVER
MINING COMPANY

Conducted on the Get-as-much-as-you-can Principle, in
5,000,000 Shares, of 5s. each.

NO LIABILITY TO SHAREHOLDERS.

COMMITTEE OF MANAGEMENT:

The names of the Committee will be published, in a few days, and will be
found to comprise some of the most illustrious Captains in the late Spanish
Legion, as well as a large number of Irish M.P.s, of the most independent
character A few Clergymen hare also consented to lend their imposing
names.

THE CONSULTING ENGINEER
is at present in Australia, but as soon as he returns, his name will be
announced.

BANKERS:

Directly all the money is paid up. the names of the Ravins will be pub¬
lished. Before then, it would evidently be premature, and highly injurious
to the successful carrying out of the Concern.

N.B. The same objection applies to the publication of any other names.

Hon. Sec. —JEREMY DIDDLER, ESQ.,

Chevalier D‘Industrie, Grand Master of the Oolden Fleece, Ac, Ac., Ac.

Offices COZENAGE CHAMBERS, CITY,

AND BOULOGNE

stricken, anticipation by the amateur clown, pantaloon,
and columbine of the exact result that will follow the
application of the (real) red-hot poker to the old

A LL bring Iheir tribute to bn name—from her

.O- Who wean the crown to him who plies the spade
Under those windowa where his corpse is laid.

Taking ita rest at last from all those years of stir.

Years that re-moulded an old world in roar
And furnace-fires of strife—with hideous clang
Of battle-hammers ; where they loudest rang.

Ilia dear aharp Toico waa heard that ne’er will be heard mo

Courts hare a seemly sorrow for such loss;

Cabinets politic regret: the great

Will misa bis punctual presence at then state—

The shade of such eclipse eren lowly hearths will cross.

But I, a jeater, what have I to do
With greatness or the grave ? The man and theme
The comment of my page may ill beseem ;

Bo be it—yet not less do I pay tribute true.

For that in him to which I would bow down
Comes not of honours heaped upon his bead,

Comet not of orders on hit breast outspread —

Nor yet of captsin’s nor of councillor’* renown.

It ia that all hit life example shews
Of reverence for duty: where he saw
Duty commanding word or act, her law.

With him waa abeclute, and brooked no quibbling glose.

He followed where she pointed; right ahead—

Unheeding what might sweep across bis path,

The cannon’s volley, or the people’s wrath;

No hope, howe’er forlorn, but at her call he led.

ABSTRACT OF PROSPECTUS.

The groat absence of Gold in England has long been felt to be a
general want. It is the object of this Company to supply that

' Tbat Gold exists in large quantities in England is a truth beyond all
doubt. The only difficulty is to know where to find it. The Directors
of this Company pledge themselves not to rest till they have ascertained
that point. _ . ,

Public rumour has long pointed to Primrose Hill as being a mine of
hidden wealth. The only wonder is, that the mine has never been worked
before. Deposits have been found there of the richest description.

Pieces of copper as big as a penny have been repeatedly picked up;
and one old man recollects vividly, as if it were onlv yesterday, bis findiog
a morreau of gold, which, when washed from the earthy matter that
surrounded it, weighed not less than a sovereign. This fact proves,
stronger than any evidence, tbat Gold lias been fpund on Primrose HiD,

and, with a little search, may be found there again. ....

There is a remarkable peculiarity in the nature or quality of the soil,
which presents strong indications of quartz, being composed partly of
the broken ends of pipes, and partly ot fragments of oyster-shells for it
is an infallible law in nature tbat wherever pipes and oysters abound,
thal is a rich neighbourhood for Quarts. , , , .

In fact there is no telling, until Primrose Hill is fairly worked, what
there may be inside it. For what we know, it may be an immense
money-box, that only requires to be broken open to astonish our eyes
with its long-secreted stores of wealth.

The true locality of “ Tom Tiddler's Ground ” has never been
ascertained yet. It will not be strange if Primrose Hill should turn out
to be the ground in question, and from the above facts, there is the best
ground for believing that, it will. YYe have been walking over t ingots
without knowing it. There has been a fortune lying at London’s door,
and for generations we have been doing nothing but kick it away. The
Regent’s Canal, at the foot of Primrose Hill, may also be a l’actoius
that is actually running with streams of Gold, and we do not even send
a bucket to help ourselves !

We think we have said enough to prove that there is Gold m England,
and plenty of it. In a few days wc shall be ready to commence opera¬
tions, and in the meantime the Directors invite with pride tbo attention
of the public to the following assay on its credulity:—

“Thin In to dirtily that I have examined the sample marked ' Primrose Illll Gold,

No. 2/ 1 find U conUlna 7503 per cent, of ihe purest sold, email traces of cllver.
eride of copper, phosphate of iron, the aubllmato ol mcicury, and aeveral other products
too numerous to mention. "Tnouae Smokes."

Future workings of Primrose Hill, however, may afford yet more . -

astounding revelations of its internal treasures. Something turns tin | Containing 111

17.—MR. PUNCH’S ACCOUNT OF A COMPANY-
PROMOTING SWINDLE. 1852.

Hard aa a blade so tempered needs must be.

And, sometimes, scant of courtesy, as one
Whose life has dealt with stern things to be done.

Not wide in range of thought, nor deep of subtlety -. j

Of most distrustful; sparing in discourse;

Himself untiring, and from all around
Claiming that force which in himself he found—

He lived, and asked no love, but won respect perforce.

And of respect, at last, came love unsought,

But not repelled when offered; and we knew
That this rare sternness bad its softness loo.

That woman's charm and grace upon his being wrought:

That underneath the armour of bis breast
Were springs of tenderness—all quick to flow
In sympathy with childhood'* joy or woe:

Tbat cnildKn climbed his knees, and made his arms their

For fifty of its eighty yearn and four
His life has been before us: who but knew
The short, spare frame, the eye of piercing blue.

The eagle-beak, the finger reared before

In greeting f—Well he bore hi* load of years,

As in his daily walk be paced along

To early prayer, or, 'mid the admiring thronr.

Past'd through Whitehall to counsel with his Peers.

He was true English—down to the heart’s core;

11 '4 sternness and his softness English both:

Our reverence and love grew with his growth.

Till we are slow to think that he can be no more.

Peace to him! Lei him sleep near him who fell
Victor at Trafalgar; by Nelson's side
Wellington’* ashes fitly may sbide.

Great captain—noble heart! Hail to thee, and farewell!

IQ —the OBITUARY NOTICE IN “ PUNCH ” ON THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

SEPTEMBER 25, 1852.

gentleman’s
legs.

No. 19 is
Mr. Punch’s
tribute to
the Duke of
Wellington
which, a
week later
(October
2nd, 1852),
was followed
by a cartoon
by Tenniel

PORTRAIT OF A DISTINGUISHED PHOTOGRAPHER.

WttO HAS JUST SUCCEEDED IN KOCUSSINO A VIEW TO H1B COMTLETE SATISFACTION.

•THE COMING OF PHOTOGRAPHY [AND OP".THE BULL]
BY “CUTHBERT
BEDE,” 1853.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

187

21. SUGGESTED HY THE MILITARY AND NAVAL REVIEWS HELD BY 'J'Hli QUEEN IN 1853.

“Verdant Green,” and this is one of four cari¬
cature illustrations of the then novel art of
photography, which Mr. Bradley did for
Punch in the year 1853. We read just now
how we are indirectly indebted to a Pope
[Pius IX.] for Sir John Tenniel’s cartoons,
and in connection with the Rev. Edward
Bradley’s picture in No. 20, it may be noted
that six clergymen, at the least, have contri¬
buted to Mr. Punch’s pages.

No. 21 shows
Punch's “ Medal
for a Peace Assur¬
ance Society,” a
pictorialization in
1853 of the still
true old saying :

“ To secure peace
be prepared for
war.” An unhappy
necessity, as some
people think, but
without doubt the
only practical way
to assure peace,
and, as usual, Mr.

Punch puts the
thing in a nut¬
shell with his two
mottoes on the
medal : “ Atten¬

tion” and “ Ready,
aye Ready.” Our
“ attention ” and
“readiness” of
1853 did not,

however, keep us out of the Crimean
War, which began in the spring of 1854,
despite the efforts of the Peace Society and
of John Bright, who are caricatured in
No. 22. But modern authorities generally
believe that the Crimean War might have
been prevented by a more vigorous policy
than that of Lord Aberdeen, whose Adminis¬
tration is chiefly remembered by what is now
thought to have been a gross blunder. This

the ROYAL ARMS AS IMPROVED BY THE PEACE SOCIETY.

__ " I VMM1 Tin: HKHT.su LION WKItE DEAD OLTItKIH T.--Jons Biugmt at Minluryh

22.— MR. PUNCH’S HIT AT JOHN BRIGHT AND THE PEACE SOCIETY. 1853.

188

1 HE STRAND MAGAZINE.

LOVELY EIGHT!

"Wot was that Whistled? Vt the Niohteboals to be souk. It tod’ll

COME ALOHO 0* MB TOU'LL HEAR ’EM A GOOD DEAL BETTER." _

23.—A. SINISTER INVITATION. 1854.

No. 22 is also interesting as a forerunner of
Mr. E. T. Reed’s remarkably witty modern
designs, “ Ready-made coats (-of-arms); or,
giving ’em fits.”

“I wish the British Lion were dead out¬
right,” said John Bright, at Edinburgh, in
1853, and Mr. Punch’s comment on these

words was the funny “ Improvement ” of the
Royal Arms depicted in No. 22.

With a glance of sympathy at the belated
traveller in No. 23, we pass to No. 24, which
shows the “ Bursting of the Russian Bubble.”

A PHOTOGRAPHIC PICTURE.

Old Lady (who 13 not used to those new-fangled notions). “ Oh, Sir /
Please, Sir ! don't, Sir / Don't for fjoodness’ sale Fire, Sir f ”

.—IN the early days of photography ;

BY “CUTHBERT BEDE,” 1853.

This was published in Punch ,
October 14th, 1854, after the
Battle of the Alma had been
fought and badly lost by Russia
and part of the Russian fleet
sunk at Sebastopol. Leech
here shows very graphically the
shattering of the “irresistible
power ” and of the “ unlimited
means ” which were to have
led the Emperor Nicholas I. of
Russia to an easy victory over the
British and French allied forces.

No. 25 is another of the
caricatures of photography in
its early days by “Cuthbert
Bede,” and very funny it is.

The next picture, No. 26, is
one of Punch's classics. It is
that well-known joke illustrat¬
ing manners in the mining
districts in the early fifties :—
First rolite Native: “Who’s ’im,

Bill?”

Second ditto: “A stranger ! ”

First ditto: “’Eave’arf abrick at ’im.”

By the way, speaking of Mr.
Punch’s jokes which have be¬
come classic, the one which is the
best known is the following : -
Worthy of intention.

Advice to persons about to marry—

Don’t !

BURSTING OF TI1K RUSSIAN' BGBBI.lv

.4.— A REFERENCE TO THE CRIMEAN WAR. BY LEECH, 1854.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

189

This famous mot appeared in Punch's
Almanac for 1845, an d Mr. Spielmann states
that it was “ based upon the ingenious wording

further illustbation of the mining districts.

first Polite Native. " Wiio'b 'ns, Bn.Lf ”

Second ditto. "A STRANQERl"

__ tint ditto. "'Bate *ark a nmcK at ’in."

26.—MINERS’ MANNERS. 1854.

of an advertisement widely put forth by
Eamonson <&: Co., well-known house fur¬
nishers of the day.”

As regards the source of this famous joke,
Mr. Spielmann, with characteristic thorough¬
ness, gives a long account of the many
claims to its paternity, and finally makes
this statement:—

.... chance has placed in my possession the
authoritative information ; and so far from any outsider,

SCENE.—WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.—TIME, TWO ON A
FOGGY MORNING.

Reduced Tradesman (to little parti/returning home). “Did you want

___ TO BUY A GOOD RAZOR I”

ALL UP WITH ENGLAND.

(From the Journal de St. Pelcrsbottrp.)

Jncerely do vc congratulate
our readers on the extreme
distress and misery in which
the English are involved by
reason of the impious war
which they have dared to
wage against our august
Lord and Master, Nicho-
las. We have the happi-
r, 1 new to assure the subjects
of His Imperial Majesty
that those wicked islanders
are in a state of absolute
:i starvation. The price of
|!*i bread liaa increased to a
M ® um vulch places it beyond
1 the means of all classes but
the most opulent of the
nobility: and the scaroity
of all other provisions is
equally severe. Mntton-
clmps are a sovereign
apiocc, and tlurty pounds
aro demanded for a joint
, , , of meat by the few butchers

who manage to keen tneir shops open. There is not a cat to be seen •
and everything would be eaten up by rats aud mioc if there were any¬
thing for the mice and rats to eat; and if those vermin had not all
perished of famine, as many as have not been caught, and applied to
the same purpose as the cats. The dogs also have disappeared from
the streets, and even from the kennels of the aristocracy thus foxes
can no longer be hunted for food, and there is not a basin of soun
to be had, or a sausage. F

Owing to the imposition of the Malt Tax, the Maiiquis of West-
minster and Baron Rothschild are the only iiersons in the country
besides the Queen and Prince Albert, who can afford beer: and
consequently-all the cab-dnvcrs and coalwhippers are in a state border¬
ing on revolt. Whitebait and minnows are sixpeuce each- whilst
aldermen, \vl19 this time last year were rolling in wealth, may now bn
seen fighting in-thc City gutters for a bone. The few hides imported
have been entirely devoured; so that boots and shoes are not pro¬
curable and the population is going barefoot. The same statement

S :s to tallow: insomuch that, the nobility’s balls are illuminated-by
ghts, and soda and potash being equally deficient, there is now
a temble meaning in the popular irquiry, “ How are you off for soap ? ”
tiuch is the want of hemp, that C.u.craft, the executioner, is reduced
to the employment of hay-ropes, and the dearth of paper is so extreme
that not only can the boys fly no kites; but accommodation bills cannot
any longer be drawn, for lack of material. Nay, it has been found
impossible, for the same reason, to carry into effect the issue of bank-
notes, by which it was in contemplation to establish an artificial
currency: for paper in England is now more valuable than gold. It is
obvious that the expenses of this unhallowed contest cannot be sus¬
tained much longer by the British infidels : in the meantime we mar
reflect on the gratifying circumstance that thev are subsisting on offal,
and beginning to think seriously about eating their babies:

2 8. A SUPPOSITITIOUS RUSSIAN ACCOUNT OK OUR DISTRESS
DURING THE CRIMEAN WAR. 1854.

anonymous or declared, paid or unpaid, being con¬
cerned in it at all, the line simply came in the ordinary
way from one of the Staff—from the man who, with
Landells, had conceived Punch and shaped it from
the beginning, and had invented that first Almanac
which had saved the paper’s life—Henry Mayhew.

No. 27 is a very clever drawing by Leech—-
they are all clever of course, but this seems

27.— PLEASANT for the YOUTH, IIy LEECH, 1853.

29.— A STREET-ARAH OK 1854.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

IQO

specially good. The youth [on
Westminster Bridge—time, two
on a foggy morning] white with
fear walks on perfectly straight
without taking any notice of the
rough who asks : “ Did you want
to buy a good razor ? ”—but he
is taking a lot of notice though.
The youth walks exactly like one
does walk when a beggar pesters
as he slouches alongside just
behind one, but here the fright¬
ened youth has good cause
indeed for the shaking fear that
Leech has by some magic put
into these strokes of his pencil.
The “ Reduced Tradesman ”

too is exactly good-but let

the picture speak for itself, it
wants no words of mine.

Si a wi Parly (toy.). " Dnxn! i

ENTER MR: BOTTLES, THE BUTLER.

MatltrFred. "Thim! That’s capital! Staso still, Bottlk, am I’ll show too i

31.—BY LEECH, 1854.

THE BATTLE OF BALAKLAVA.

[Nine verses, on the battle generally, precede the lines bclcnv, which
refer to the charge oj the Light Brigade, illustrated by Leech, in No. 32.
H. S.]

But who is there, with patient tongue the sorry tale to tell,

How our Light Brigade, true martyrs to the point of honour, fell !

“ ’Twas sublime, but ’twas not warfare,” that charge of woe and wrack,
That led six hundred to the guns, and brought two hundred back !

Enough ! the order came to charge, and charge they did—like men :

While shot and shell and rifle-ball played on them down the glen.

Though thirty guns were ranged in front, not one drew bated breath,
Unfaltering, unquestioning, they rode upon their death !

Nor by five times their number of all arms could they be stayed ;

And with two lives for one of ours, e en’then, the Russians paid ;

Till torn with shot and rent with shell, a spent and bleeding few,—

Life was against those fearful odds,—from the grapple they withdrew.

But still like wounded lions, their faces to the foe,

More conquerors than conquered, they fell back stern and slow ;

With dinted arms and weary steeds—all bruised and soiled and worn—

Is this the wreck of all that rode so bravely out this morn ?

Where thirty answered muster at dawn now answer ten,

Oh, woe’s me for such officers !—Oh, woe’s me for such men !

Whose was the blame? Name not his name, but rather seek to hide.

If he live, leave him to conscience—to God, if he have died :

But you, true band of heroes, you have done your duty well:

Your country asks not, to what end ; it knows but how you fell!

30.— OUT OF THE RAIN. 1854.

There is an amusing “ Rus¬
sian ” account, in No. 28, of our
troubles at home during the
Crimean War; and No. 29
shows a street-Arab asking the
Queen’s coachman, “ I say,
Coachy, are you engaged ? ”

Glancing at Nos. 30 and 31,
we see in No. 32 Leech’s picture
of the heroic charge at the
Battle of Balaclava, on October
25, 1854, with Lord Cardigan
leading his famous Light Bri¬
gade of Cavalry. Here- are
Mr. Punch’s lines on this gallant
charge, which was subsequently
immortalized by Tennyson in
his “ Charge of the Light
Brigade ”:—

Note.- In Part I. of this article, the “ Portrait of the Railway Panic,”
illustration No. 17, was erroneously ascribed to Doyle; the artist was
William Newman, one of Mr. Punch’s first recruits.

_ A TRUMP CARD(IGAN). __

32.—THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. BY LEECH, NOVEMBER 25, 1854.

(To be continued.)

Miss Cayley's Adventures.

XIL—THE ADVENTURE OF THE UNPROFESSIONAL DETECTIVE.

By Grant Allen.

S Lady Georgina at home ? ”
The discreet man-servant
in sober black clothes eyed
me suspiciously. “ No, miss,”
he answered. “ That is to
say—no, ma’am. Her lady¬
ship is still at Mr. Marmaduke Ashurst’s—
the late Mr. Marmaduke Ashurst’s, I mean
—in Park Lane North. You know the
number, ma’am ? ”

“ Yes, I know it,” I replied, with a gasp ;
for this was indeed a triumph. My one
fear had been lest Lord Southminster should
already have taken possession—why, you will
see hereafter; and it relieved me to learn
that Lady Georgina was still at hand to guard
my husband’s interests. She had been living
at the house, practically, since her brother’s
death. I drove round with all speed, and
flung myself into my dear old lady’s arms.

She kissed me on both cheeks with un¬
wonted tenderness. “ Lois,” she cried, with
tears in her eyes, “ you’re a brick ! ” It was
not exactly poetical at such a moment, but
from her it meant more than much gushing
phraseology.

“ And you’re here in possession ! ” I
murmured.

The Cantankerous Old Lady nodded. She
was in her element, I must admit. She
dearly loved a row—above all, a family row ;
but to be in the thick of a family row, and
to feel herself in the right, with the law
against her—that was joy such as Lady
Georgina had seldom before experienced.
“Yes, dear,” she burst out volubly, “I’m in
possession, thank Heaven. And what’s more,
they won’t oust me without a legal process.
I’ve been here, off and on, you know, ever
since poor dear Marmy died, looking after

l’VE HELD THE FORT BY MAIN FORCE.”

“ Kiss me,” I cried, flushed. “ I am your
niece ! ” But she knew it already, for our
movements had been fully reported by this
time (with picturesque additions) in the
morning papers. Imagination, ill-developed
in the English race, seems to concentrate
itself in the lower order of journalists.

things for Harold; and I shall look after
them still, till Bertie Southminster succeeds
in ejecting me, which won’t be easy. Oh,
I’ve held the fort by main force, I can tell
you ; held it like a Trojan. Bertie’s in a
precious great hurry to move in, I can
see ; but I won’t allow him. He’s been

192

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

down here this morning, fatuously blustering,
and trying to carry the post by storm, with
a couple of policemen.”

“ Policemen ! ” I cried. “ To turn you
out ? ”

“ Yes, my dear, policemen : but (the Lord
be praised) I was too much for him. There
are legal formalities to fulfil yet; and I won’t
budge an inch, Lois, not one inch, my dear,
till he’s fulfilled every one of them. Mark
my words, child, that boy’s up to some
devilry.”

“ He is,” I answered.

“ Yes, he wouldn’t be in such a rampaging
hurry to get in—being as lazy as he’s empty-
headed—takes after Gwendoline in that—if
he hadn’t some excellent reason for wishing
to take possession : and depend upon it, the
reason is that he wants to get hold of some¬
thing or other that’s Plarold’s. But he shan't
if I can help it ; and thank my stars, I’m a
dour woman to reckon with. If he comes,
he comes over my old bones, child. I’ve
been overhauling everything of Marmy’s,
I can tell you, to checkmate the boy if
I can ; but I’ve found nothing yet, and till

“ I know you will, dear,” I assented, kissing
her, “ and so I shall venture to leave you,
while I go out to institute another little
inquiry.”

“ What inquiry ? ”

I shook my head. “ It’s only a surmise,”
I said, hesitating. “ I’ll tell you about it
later. I’ve had time to think while I’ve been
coming back in the train, and I’ve thought
of many things. Mount guard till I return,
and mind you don’t let Lord South minster
have access to anything.”

“ I’ll shoot him first, dear.” And I believe
she meant it.

I drove on in the same cab to Harold’s
solicitor. There I laid my fresh doubts at
once before him. He rubbed his bony
hands. “ You’ve hit it ! ” he cried, charmed.
“ My dear madam, you’ve hit it ! I never
did like that will. I never did like the
signatures, the witnesses, the look of it.
But what could I do ? Mr. Tillington pro¬
pounded it. Of course it wasn’t my busi¬
ness to go dead against my own client.”

“ Then you doubted Harold’s honour, Mr.
Hayes ? ” I cried, flushing.

“ ‘ NEVER!’ HE ANSWERED. ‘ NEVER !’”

I’ve satisfied myself on that point, 111 hold
the fort still, if I have to barricade that pasty-
faced scoundrel of a nephew of mine out by
piling the furniture against the front door --I
will as sure as my name’s Georgina Pawley!”

“ Never ! ” he answered. “ Never ! I felt
sure there must be some mistake somewhere,
but not any trickery on — your husband’s
part. Now, you supply the right clue, We
must look into this, immediately."

MISS CAYLEY’S ADVENTURES.

193

He hurried round with me at once in the
same cab to the court. The incriminated
will had been “ impounded,” as they call it ;
but, under certain restrictions, and subject to
the closest surveillance, I was allowed to
examine it with my husband’s solicitor,
before the eyes of the authorities. I looked
at it long with the naked eye and also with a
small pocket lens. The paper, as I had
noted before, was the same kind of foolscap
as that which I had been in the habit of
using at my office in Florence; and the type¬
writing—was it mine ? The longer I looked
at it, the more I doubted it.

After a careful examination I turned round
to our solicitor. “ Mr. Hayes,” I said, firmly,
having arrived at my conclusion, “this is not
the document I type-wrote at Florence.”

“ How do you know ? ” he asked. “ A
different machine ? Some small peculiarity
in the shape of the letters ? ”

“ No, the rogue who typed this will was
too cunning for that. He didn’t allow him¬
self to be foiled by such a scholar’s mate.
It is written with a Spread Eagle, the same
sort of machine precisely as my own. I

know the type perfectly. But-” I

hesitated.

“ But what ? ”

“ Well, it is difficult to explain. There is
character in typewriting, just as there is in
handwriting, only, of course, not quite so
much of it. Every operator is liable to his
own peculiar tricks and blunders. If 1 had
some of my own typewritten manuscript
here to show you, I could soon make that
evident.”

“ I can easily believe it. Individuality
runs through all we do, however seemingly
mechanical. But are the points of a sort
that you could make clear in court to the
satisfaction of a jury ? ”

“ I think so. Look here, for example.
Certain letters get habitually mixed up in
typewriting; c and v stand next one another
on the keyboard of the machine, and the
person who typed this draft sometimes strikes
a c instead of a v, or vice versa. I never do
that. I he letters I tend to confuse are s and
w , or else e and r, which also come very
near one another in the arbitrary arrangement.
Besides, when I type-wrote the original of
this will, I made no errors at all; I took
such very great pains about it.”

“ And this person did make errors ? ”

“Yes; struck the wrong letter first, and
then corrected it often by striking another
rather hard on top of it. See, this was a
v to begin with, and he turned it into a c.

Vol. xvii.—25.

Besides, the hand that wrote this will is
heavier than mine : it comes down thump ,
thump , thump , while mine glides lightly.
And the hyphens are used with a space
between them, and the character of the
punctuation is not exactly as I make it.”

“Still,” Mr. Hayes objected, “ we have
nothing but your word. I’m afraid, in such
a case, we could never induce a jury to
accept your unsupported evidence.”

“ I don’t want them to accept it,” I
answered. “ I am looking this up for my
own satisfaction. I want to know, first, who
wrote this will. And of one thing I am
quite clear: it is not the document I drew
up for Mr. Ashurst. Just look at that
The x alone is conclusive. My typewriter
had the upper right-hand stroke of the small

badly formed, or broken, while this one is
perfect. I remember it well, because I
used always to improve all my lower¬
case a;’s with a pen when I re-read and
corrected. I see their dodge clearly now.
It is a most diabolical conspiracy. Instead
of forging a will in Lord Southminster’s favour,
they have substituted a forgery for the real
will, and then managed to make my poor
Harold prove it.”

“ In that case, no doubt, they have de¬
stroyed the real one, the original,” Mr. Hayes
put in.

“ I don’t think so,” I answered, after a
moment’s deliberation. “ From what I
know of Mr. Ashurst, I don’t believe it is
likely he would have left his will about care¬
lessly anywhere. He was a secretive man,
fond of mysteries and mystifications. He
would be sure to conceal it. Besides, Lady
Georgina and Harold have been taking care
of everything in the house ' ever since he
died.”

“But,” Mr. Hayes objected, “the forger
of this document, supposing it to be forged,
must have had access to the original, since
you say the terms of the two are identical;
only the signatures are forgeries. And if he
saw and copied it, why might he not also
have destroyed it ? ”

A light flashed across me all at once.

“ The forger did see the original,” I cried,

“ but not the fair copy. I have it all now!

I detect their trick ! It comes back to me
vividly ! When I had finished typing the
copy at Florence from my first rough draft,
which I had taken down on the machine
before Mr. Ashurst’s eyes, I remember now
that I threw the original into the waste-paper
basket. It must have been there that even¬
ing when Higginson called and asked for the

194

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

will to take it back to Mr. Ashurst. He
called for it, no doubt, hoping to open the
packet before he delivered it and make a
copy of the document for this very purpose.
But I refused to let him have it. Before he
saw me, however, he had been left by him¬
self for ten minutes in the office ; for I
remember coming out to him and finding
him there alone : and during that ten minutes,
being what he is, you may be sure he fished
out the rough draft and appropriated it ! ”

“ That is more than likely,” my solicitor
nodded. “ You are tracking him to his lair.
We shall have him in our power.”

in his plans ; but who would marry such a
piece of moist clay? Besides, I could never
have taken anyone but Harold.” 1 hen
another clue came home to me. “ Mr.
Hayes,” I cried, jumping at it, “ Higginson,
who forged this will, never saw the real
document itself at all; he saw only the draft:
for Mr. Ashurst altered one word viva voce in
the original at the last moment, and I made
a pencil note of it on my cuff at the time :
and see, it isn’t here, though I inserted it in
the final clean copy of the will—the word
‘especially. 5 It grows upon me more and
more each minute that the real instrument is

“\VE shall have him in our power.”

I grew more and more excited as the whole
cunning plot unravelled itself mentally step
by step before me. “ He must then have
gone to Lord Southminster, 55 I went on,
“and told him of the legacy he expected
from Mr. Ashurst. It was five hundred pounds
—a mere trifle to Higginson, who plays for
thousands. So he must have offered to
arrange matters for Lord Southminster if
Southminster would consent to make
good that sum and a great deal more
to him. That odious little cad told
me himself on the Jumna they were
engaged in pulling off ‘ a big coup 5 between
them. He thought then I would marry him,
and that he would so secure my connivance

hidden somewhere in Mr. Ashurst’s house—
Harold’s house—our house; and that because
it is there, Lord Southminster is so indecently
anxious to oust his aunt and take instant
possession.”

“ In that case,” Mr. Hayes remarked, “ we
had better go back to Lady Georgina without
one minute’s delay, and, while she still holds
the house, institute a thorough search for it.”

No sooner said than done. We jumped
again into our cab and started. As we drove
back, Mr. Hayes asked me where I thought
we were most likely to find it.

“ In a secret drawer in Mr. Ashurst’s
desk,” I answered, by a flash of instinct,
without a second’s hesitation.

T 95

MISS CAYLEY’S ADVENTURES.

“ How do you know there’s a secret
drawer ? ”

“ I don’t know it. I infer it from my
general knowledge of Mr. Ashurst’s character.
He loved secret drawers, ciphers, crypto¬
grams, mystery-mongering.”

“ But it was in that desk that your husband
found the forged document,” the lawyer
objected.

Once more I had a flash of inspiration or
intuition. “Because White, Mr. Ashurst’s
valet, had it in readiness in his possession,” I
answered, “and hid it there, in the most
obvious and unconcealed place he could
find, as soon as the breath was out of his
master’s body. I remember now Lord South-
minster gave himself away to some extent in
that matter. 1 he hateful little creature isn’t
really clever enough, for all his cunning
—and with Higginson to back him —to
mix himself up in such tricks as forgery.
He told me at Aden he had had a tele¬
gram from ‘Marmy’s valet,’ to report
progress; and he received another, the
night Mr. Ashurst died, at Moozuflernuggar.
Depend upon it, White was more or less
in this plot; Higginson left him the forged
will when they started for India ; and as soon
as Mr. Ashurst died White hid it where
Harold was bound to find it.”

“ If so >” Mr. Hayes answered, “that’s
well; we have something to go upon. The
more of them, the better. There is safety
in numbers—for the. honest folk. I never
knew three rogues hold long together,
especially when threatened with a criminal
prosecution. Their confederacy breaks down
before the chance of punishment. Each
tries to screen himself by betraying the
others.”

“ Higginson was the soul of this plot,” I
went on. “ Of that you may be sure.
He’s a wily old fox, but we’ll run him to
earth yet. The more I think of it, the
more I feel sure, from what I know of
Mr. Ashurst’s character, he would never have
put that will in so exposed a place as the one
where Harold says he found it.”

We drew up at the door of the disputed
house just in time for the siege. Mr. Hayes
and I walked in. We found Lady Georgina
face to face with Lord Southminster. The
opposing forces were still at the stage of
preliminaries of warfare.

“ Look heah,” the pea-green young man
was observing, in his drawling voice, as we
entered; “ it’s no use your talking, deah
Georgey. This house is mine, and I won’t
have you meddling with it.”

“ This house is not yours, you odious little
scamp,” his aunt retorted, raising her shrill
voice some notes higher than usual; “and
while I can hold a stick you shall not come
inside it.”

“Very well, then; you drive me to hostili¬
ties, don’t yah know. I’m sorry to show
disrespect to your grey hairs—if any—but I
shall be obliged to call in the police to eject
yah.”

“ Call them in if you like,” I answered,
interposing between them. “Go out and
get them ! Mr. Hayes, while he’s gone, send
for a carpenter to break open the back of
Mr. Ashurst’s escritoire.”

“A carpentah?” he cried, turning several
degrees whiter than his pasty wont. “ What
for ? A carpentah ? ”

I spoke distinctly. “Because we have
reason to believe Mr. Ashurst’s real will is
concealed in this house in a secret drawer,
and because the keys were in the possession
of White, whom we believe to be your
accomplice in this shallow conspiracy.”

He gasped and looked alarmed. “No,
you don’t,” he cried, stepping briskly for¬
ward. “You don’t, I tell yah ! Break open
Marmy’s desk ! Why, hang it all, it’s my
property.”

“We shall see about that after we’ve
broken it open,” I answered, grimly. “ Here,
this screw-driver will do. The back’s not
strong. Now, your help, Mr. Hayes—one,
two, three; we can prise it apart between
us.”

Lord Southminster rushed up and tried to
prevent us. But Lady Georgina, seizing
both wrists, held him tight as in a vice with
her dear skinny old hands. He writhed and
struggled, all in vain : he could not escape
her. “ I’ve often spanked you, Bertie,” she
cried, “ and if you attempt to interfere, I’ll
spank you again; that’s the long and the
short of it! ”

He broke from her and rushed out, to call
the police, I believe, and prevent our desecra¬
tion of poor Marmy’s property.

Inside the first shell were several locked
drawers, and two or three open ones, out of
one of which Harold had fished the false
will. Instinct taught me somehow that the
central drawer on the left-hand side was the
compartment behind which lay the secret
receptacle. I prised it apart and peered
about inside it. Presently, I saw a slip-
panel, which I touched with one finger. The
pigeon-hole flew open and disclosed a narrow
slit. I . clutched at something — the will!
Ho, victory ! the will! I raised it aloft with

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

196

a wild shout. Not a doubt of it! The real,
the genuine document!

We turned it over and read it. It was my
own fair copy, written at Florence, and bear¬
ing all the small marks of authenticity about
it which I had pointed out to Mr. Hayes as
wanting to the forged
and impounded docu¬
ment. Fortunately,

Lady Georgina and
four of the servants
had stood by through¬
out this scene, and had
watched our demean¬
our, as well as Lord
Southminster’s.

We turned next to
the signatures. The
principal one was clearly
Mr. Ashurst’s—I knew
it at once—his legible
fat hand, “Marmaduke
Courtney Ashurst.”

And then the witnesses?

They fairly took our
breath away.

“ Why, Higginson’s
sister isn’t one of them
at all,” Mr. Hayes
cried, astonished.

A flush of remorse
came over me. I saw
it all now. I had
misjudged that poor
woman ! She had the
misfortune to be a
rogue’s sister, but, as
Harold had said, was
herself a most respect¬
able and blameless
person. Higginson
must have forged her name to the docu¬
ment ; that was all; and she had naturally
sworn that she never signed it. He knew her
honesty. It was a master-stroke of rascality.

“The other one isn’t here, either,” I ex¬
claimed, growing more puzzled. “ The waiter
at the hotel! Why, that’s another forgery !
Higginson must have waited till the man was
safely dead, and then used him similarly. It
was all very clever. Now, who are these
people who really witnessed it ? ”

“ The first one,” Mr. Hayes said, examin¬
ing the handwriting, “is Sir Roger Bland,
the Dorsetshire baronet: he’s dead, poor
fellow; but he was at Florence at the time,
and I can answer for his signature. He was
a client of mine, and died at Mentone. The
second is Captain Richards, of the Mounted

Police : he’s living still, but he’s away in
South Africa.”

“Then they risked his turning up? ”

“ If they knew who the real witnesses were
at all—which is doubtful. You see, as you
say, they may have seen the rough draft
only.”

“ Higginson would
know,” I answered.

“ He was with Mr.
Ashurst at Florence at
the time, and he would
take good care to keep
a watch upon his move¬
ments. In my belief,
it was he who suggested
this whole plot to Lord
Southminster.”

“ Of course it was,”
Lady Georgina put in.

“ That’s absolutely
certain. Bertie’s
a rogue as well as a
fool: but he’s too great
a fool to invent a clever
roguery, and too great
a knave not to join in
it foolishly when any¬
body else takes the
pains to invent it.”

“And it was a clever
roguery,” Mr. Hayes
interposed. “An
ordinary rascal would
have forged a later will
in Lord Southminster’s
favour, and run the risk
of detection; Higgin¬
son had the acuteness
to forge a will exactly
like the real one, and
to let your husband bear the burden of the
forger) 7 . It was as sagacious as it was
ruthless.”

“The next point,” I said, “will be for us
to prove it.”

At that moment the bell rang, and one of
the house - servants — all puzzled by this
conflict of interests—came in with a telegram,
which he handed me on a salver. I broke it
open, without glancing at the envelope. Its
contents baffled me : “ My address is Hotel
Bristol, Paris; name as usual. Send me a
thousand pounds on account at once. I
can’t afford to wait. No shillyshallying.

The message was unsigned. For a moment,
I couldn’t imagine who sent it, or what it
was driving at.

Then I took up the envelope. “ Viscount

VICTORY.”

MISS CAYLEY'S ADVENTURES.

197

Southminster, 24, Park Lane North,
London.”

My heart gave a jump. I saw in a second
that chance or Providence had delivered the
conspirators into my hands that day. The
telegram was from Higginson ! I had opened
it by accident.

It was obvious what had happened. Lord
Southminster must have written to him on
the result of the trial, and told him he meant
to take possession of his uncle’s house
immediately. Higginson had acted on that
hint, and addressed his telegram where he
thought it likely Lord Southminster would
receive it earliest. I had opened it in error,
and that, too, was fortunate, for even in
dealing with such a pack of scoundrels, it
would never have occurred to me to violate
somebody else’s correspondence had I not
thought it was addressed to me. But having
arrived at the truth thus unintentionally, I
had, of course, no scruples about making full
use of my information.

I showed the despatch at once to Lady

valet,” he said, quietly. “ The moment has
now arrived when we can begin to set these
conspirators by the ears. As soon as they
learn that we know all, they will be eager to
inform upon one another.”

I rang the bell. “Send up White,” I
said. “ We wish to speak to him.”

The valet stole up, self-accused, a timid,
servile creature, rubbing his hands nervously,
and suspecting mischief. He was a rat in
trouble. He had thin brown hair, neatly
brushed and plastered down, so as to make
it look still thinner, and his face was the
average narrow cunning face of the dishonest
man-servant. It had an ounce of wile in it
to a pound or two of servility. He seemed
just the sort of rogue meanly to join in an
underhand conspiracy, and then meanly to
back out of it. You could read at a glance
that his principle in life was to save his own
bacon.

He advanced, fumbling his hands all the
time, and smiling and fawning. “ You wished
to see me, sir ? ” he murmured, in a depre-

“ YOU WISHED TO SEE ME, SIR?"

Georgina and Mr. Hayes. They recognised
its importance. “ What next ? ” I inquired.
“ Time presses. At half-past three Harold
comes up for examination at Bow Street.”

Mr. Hayes was ready with an apt ex¬
pedient. “ Ring the bell for Mr. Ashurst’s

catory voice, looking sideways at Lady
Georgina and me, but addressing the lawyer.

“Yes, White, I wished to see you. I have
a question to ask you. Who put the forged
will in Mr. Ashurst’s desk ? Was it you, or
some other person ? ”

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE.

198

The question terrified him. He changed
colour and gasped. But he rubbed his
hands harder than ever and affected a sickly
smile. “ Oh, sir, how should I know, sir ?

1 had nothing to do with it. I suppose—it
was Mr. Tillington.”

Our lawyer pounced upon him like a hawk
on a titmouse. “ Don’t prevaricate with me,
sir,” he said, sternly. “If you do, it may
be worse for you. This case has assumed
quite another aspect. It is you and your
associates who will be placed in the dock,
not Mr. Tillington. You had better speak
the truth ; it is your one chance, I warn you.
Lie to me, and instead of calling you as a
witness for our case, I shall include you in
the indictment.”

White looked down uneasily at his shoes,
and cowered. “ Oh, sir, I don’t understand
you.”

“ Yes, you do. You understand me, and
you know I mean it. Wriggling is useless ;
we intend to prosecute. We have unravelled
this vile plot. We know the whole truth.
Higginson and Lord Southminster forged a

will between them-”

“ Oh, sir, not Lord Southminster! His

lordship, I’m sure-”

Mr. Hayes’s keen eye had noted the subtle
shade of distinction and admission. But he
said nothing openly. “Well, then, Higgin¬
son forged, and Lord Southminster accepted,
a false will, which purported to be Mr.
Marmaduke Ashurst’s. Now, follow me
clearly. That will could not have been put
into the escritoire during Mr. Ashurst’s life, for
there would have been risk of his discovering
it. It must, therefore, have been put there
afterward. The moment he was dead, you,
or somebody else with your consent and con¬
nivance, slipped it into the escritoire; and
you afterwards showed Mr. Tillington the
place where you had set it or seen it set,
leading him to believe it was Mr. Ashurst’s
will, and so involved him in all this trouble.
Note that that was a felonious act. We
accuse you of felony. Do you mean to con¬
fess, and give evidence on our behalf, or will
you force me to send for a policeman to
arrest you ? ”

The cur hesitated still. “ Oh, sir,” draw¬
ing back, and fumbling his hands on his
breast, “you don’t mean it.”

Mr. Hayes was prompt. “ Hesslegrave,
go for a policeman.”

That curt sentence brought the rogue on his
marrow-bones at once. He clasped his hands
and debated inwardly. “ If I tell you all I
know,” he said, at last, looking about him

with an air of abject terror, as if he thought
Lord Southminster or Higginson would hear
him, “will you promise not to prosecute
me ? ” His tone became insinuating. “ For
a hundred pounds, I could find the real will
for you. You’d better close with me. To¬
day is the last chance. As soon as his lord-
ship comes in, he’ll hunt it up and destroy
it.”

I flourished it before him, and pointed
with one hand to the broken desk, which he
had not yet observed in his craven agitation.

“ We do not need your aid,” I answered.

“ We have found the will, ourselves. Thanks
to Lady Georgina, it is safe till this minute.”

“ And to me,” he put in, cringing, and
trying, after his kind, to curry favour with
the winners at the last moment. “ It’s all
my doing, my lady ! I wouldn’t destroy it.
His lordship offered me a hundred pounds
more to break open the back of the desk at
night, while your ladyship was asleep, and
burn the thing quietly. But I told him he
might do his own dirty work if he wanted it
done. It wasn’t good enough while your
ladyship was here in possession. Besides, I
wanted the right will preserved, for I thought
things might turn up so ; and I wouldn’t
stand by and see a gentleman like Mr. Til¬
lington, as has always behaved well to me,
deprived of his inheritance.”

“ Which is why you conspired with Lord
Southminster to rob him of it, and to send
him to prison for Higginson’s crime,” I inter¬
posed, calmly.

“Then you confess you put the forged
will there?” Mr. Hayes said, getting to
business.

White looked about him helplessly. He
missed his headpiece, the instigator of the
plot. “Well, it was like this, my lady,” he
began, turning to Lady Georgina, and
wriggling to gain time. “ You see, his lord-

ship and Mr. Higginson-” he twirled his

thumbs and tried to invent something
plausible.

Lady Georgina swooped. “No rigmarole ! ”
she said, sharply. “ Do you confess you put
it there or do you not—reptile ? ” Her
vehemence startled him.

“ Yes, I confess I put it there,” he said at
last, blinking. “As soon as the breath was
out of Mr. Ashurst’s body I put it there. ’
He began to whimper. “ I’m a poor man
with a wife and family, sir,” he went on,
“ though in Mr. Ashurst’s time I always kep’
that quiet; and his lordship offered to pay
me well for the job ; and when you’re paid
well for a job yourself, sir-”

MISS CAYLEY’S AD VENTURES.

T 99

Mr. Hayes waved him off with one im¬
perious hand. “Sit down in the corner
there, man, and don’t move or utter another
word,” he said, sternly, “ until I order you.
You will be in time still for me to produce
at Bow Street.”

Just at that moment, Lord Southminster
swaggered back, accompanied by a couple
of unwilling policemen. “Oh, I say,” he
cried, bursting in and staring around him,
jubilant. “ Look heah, Georgey, are you
going quietly, or must I ask these coppahs to
evict you ? ” He was wreathed in smiles
now, and had evidently been fortifying him¬
self with brandies and soda.

Lady Georgina rose in her wrath. “ Yes,
I’ll go if you wish it, Bertie,” she answered,
with calm irony. “ I’ll leave the house as
soon as you like—for the present—till we
come back again with Harold and his police¬
men to evict you. This house is Harold’s.
Your game is played, boy.” She spoke
slowly. “ We have found the other will—we
have discovered Higginson’s present address
in Paris—and we know from White how he
and you arranged this little conspiracy.”

She rapped out each clause in this last
accusing sentence with deliberate effect, like

to do without him. That fellah had squared
it all up so neatly, don’t yah know, that I
thought there couldn’t be any sort of hitch
in the proceedings.”

“You reckoned without Lois,” Lady
Georgina said, calmly.

“Ah, Miss Cayley—that’s true. I mean,
Mrs. Tillington. Yaas, yaas, I know, she’s
a doosid clevah person for a woman, now
isn’t she ? ”

It was impossible to take this flabby
creature seriously, even as a criminal. Lady
Georgina’s lips relaxed. “ Doosid clevei ”
she admitted, looking at me almost tenderly.

“ But not quite so clevah, don’t yah know,
as Higginson ! ”

“There you make your blooming little
erraw,” Mr. Hayes burst in, adopting one of
Lord Southminster’s favourite witticisms—
the sort of witticism that improves, like poetry,
by frequent repetition. “ Policemen, you may
go into the next room and wait: this is a
family affair ; we have no immediate need of
you.”

“ Oh, certainly,” Lord Southminster
echoed, much relieved. “Very propah
sentiment ! Most undesirable that the
constables should mix themselves up in a

so many pistol-shots. Each bullet hit home.
The pea-green young man, drawing back and
staring, stroked his shadowy moustache with
feeble fingers in undisguised astonishment.
Then he dropped into a chair and fixed his
gaze blankly on Lady Georgina. “ Well,
this is a fair knock-out,” he ejaculated,
fatuously disconcerted. “ I wish Higginson
was heah. I really don’t quite know what

family mattah like this. Not the place for
inferiahs 1 ”

“ Then why introduce them ? ” Lady
Georgina burst out, turning on him.

He smiled his fatuous smile. “ That’s
just what I say,” he answered. “ Why the
jooce introduce them ? But don’t snap my
head off! ”

The policemen withdrew respectfully, glad

200

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

to be relieved of this unpleasant business,
where they could gain no credit, and might
possibly involve themselves in a charge of
assault. Lord Southminster rose with a
benevolent grin, and looked about him
pleasantly. The brandies and soda had
endowed him with irrepressible cheerful¬
ness.

“ Well ? ” Lady Georgina murmured.

“Well, I think I’ll leave now, Georgey.
You’ve trumped my ace, yah know. Nasty
trick of White to go and round on a fellah.
I don’t like the turn this business is taking.
Seems to me, the only way I have left to
get out of it is—to turn Queen’s evidence.”

Lady Georgina planted herself firmly
against the door. “ Bertie,” she cried, “ no,
you don’t—not till we’ve got what we want
out of you ! ”

He gazed at her blandly. His face broke
once more into an imbecile smile. “ You
were always a rough ’un, Georgey. Your
hand did sting! Well, what do you want
now ? We’ve each played our cards, and you
needn’t cut up rusty over it—especially when
you’re winning ! Hang it all, I wish I had
Higginson heah to tackle you ! ”

“ If you go to see the Treasury people, or
the Solicitor-General, or the Public Prosecutor,
or whoever else it may be,” Lady Georgina
said, stoutly, “ Mr. Hayes must go with you.
We’ve trumped your ace, as you say, and we
mean to take advantage of it. And then you
must trundle yourself down to Bow Street
afterwards, confess the whole truth, and set
Harold at liberty.”

“ Oh, I say now, Georgey ! The whole
truth! the whole blooming truth! That’s
really what I call humiliating a fellah ! ”

“ If you don’t, we arrest you this minute—
fourteen years’ imprisonment ! ”

“ Fourteen yeahs ? ” He wiped his fore¬
head. “ Oh, I say. How doosid uncom¬
fortable. I was nevah much good at doing
anything by the sweat of my brow. I ought
to have lived in the Garden of Eden.
Georgey, you’re hard on a chap when he’s
down on his luck. It would be confounded
cruel to send me to fourteen yeahs at Port¬
land.”

“You would have sent my husband to it,”
I broke in, angrily, confronting him.

“What? You too, Miss Cayley?—T mean
Mrs. Tillington. Don’t look at me like that.
Tigahs aren’t in it.”

His jauntiness disarmed us. However
wicked he might be, one felt it would be
ridiculous to imprison this schoolboy. A
sound flogging and a month’s deprivation

of wine and cigarettes was the obvious
punishment designed for him by nature.

“You must go down to the police-court
and confess this whole conspiracy,” Lady
Georgina went on after a pause, as sternly as
she was able. “ I prefer, if we can, to save
the family—even you, Bertie. But I can’t
any longer save the family honour—I can
only save Harold’s. You must help me
to do that; and then, you must give me
your solemn promise—in writing—to leave
England for ever, and go to live in South
Africa.”

He stroked the invisible moustache more
nervously than before. That penalty came
home to him. “ What, leave England for
evah ? Newmarket—Ascot—the club—the
music-halls ! ”

“ Or fourteen years’ imprisonment ! ”

“ Georgey, you spank as hard as evah ! ”

“ Decide at once, or we arrest you ! ”

He glanced about him feebly. I could
see he was longing for his lost confederate.
“Well, I’ll go,” he said at last, sobering
down ; “ and your solicitaw can trot round
with me. I’ll do all that you wish, though I
call it most unfriendly. Hang it all, fourteen
yeahs would be so beastly unpleasant ! ”

We drove forthwith to the proper authori¬
ties, who, on hearing the facts, at once
arranged to accept Lord Southminster and
White as Queen’s evidence, neither being
the actual forger. We also telegraphed to
Paris to have Higginson arrested, Lord
Southminster giving us up his assumed name
with the utmost cheerfulness, and without
one moment’s compunction. Mr. Hayes was
quite right: each conspirator was only too
ready to save himself by betraying his
fellows. Then we drove on to Bow Street
(Lord Southminster consoling himself with a
cigarette on the way), just in time for
Harold’s case, which was to be taken, by
special arrangement, at 3.30.

A very few minutes sufficed to turn the
tables completely on the conspirators.
Harold was discharged, and a warrant was
issued for the arrest of Higginson, the actual
forger. He had drawn up the false will and
signed it with Mr. Ashurst’s name, after
which he had presented it for Lord South-
minster’s approval. The pea-green young
man told his tale with engaging frankness.
“Bertie’s a simple Simon,” Lady Georgina
commented to me ; “ but he’s also a rogue ;
and Higginson saw his way to make excellent
capital of him in both capacities — first
use him as a catspaw, and then blackmail
him.”

MISS CAYLEY’S ADVENTURES

201

On the steps of the police-court, as we
emerged triumphant, Lord Southminster met
us — still radiant as ever. He seemed wholly
unaware of the depths of his iniquity: a fresh
dose of brandy had restored his composure.
“Look heah,” he said, “Harold, your wife

tin and been a countess as well, aftah the
governah’s dead and gone, don’t yah see.
You’d have landed the double event. So
you’d have pulled off a bettah thing for your¬
self in the end, as I said, if you’d laid your
bottom dollah on me for winnah ! ”

“ HAROLD, YOUR WIFE HAS BESTED ME.”

has bested me! Jolly good thing for you
that you managed to get hold of such a
clevah woman ! If you hadn’t, deah boy,
you’d have found yourself in Queeah Street !
But, I say, Lois—I call yah Lois because
you’re my cousin now, yah know—you were
backing the wrong man aftah all, as I told
yah. For if you’d backed me , all this
wouldn’t have come out; you’d have got the

Higginson is now doing fourteen years at
Portland ; Harold and I are happy in the
sweetest place in Gloucestershire; and Lord
Southminster, blissfully unaware of the con¬
tempt with which the rest of the world
regards him, is shooting big game among his
“ boys ” in South Africa. Indeed, he bears
so little malice that he sent us a present of a
trophy of horns for our hall last winter.

Vol. xvii.—26.

A Town in the Tree-Tops.

By Ellsworth Douglass.

VERYBODY at the petision
had heard it, but Bayly has a
circumstantial and picturesque
manner of narration, which
gives old stories a new
interest.

“ Wasn’t it your American millionaire, Mr.
Waldorf Astor,” he said, addressing me, “who
made a wager that he would comfortably seat
thirty-two guests around the stump of a Cali¬
fornia big tree? And didn’t he do it?
Brought a slice off the tree-stump more than
6,000 miles, and had a grand dinner on it in
London ? ”

“ I must say I like your big tree stories
better than your big tree wines,” put in
Gail let, a dashing young Frenchman, who
spoke English fluently ; “ but I don’t think
all that is so wonderful. I can show you a
place, within less than an hour of Paris,
where more than thirty-two persons can dine
around comfortable tables high up in the
branches of a single tree ! ”

“That sounds interesting, Gaillet; to me
it smells like ‘good copy.’ Eating up in
trees might make some novel photographs;
what do you say, Bayly?”

I purposely touched the young Englishman

on his hobby. He was an amateur photo¬
grapher of the virulent and persistent type,
and had recently infected me with the
contagion.

“If the sun looks promising we will ride
down there on our wheels to-morrow and
have a look at them,” he replied. “Can you
go with us and show us the way, Gaillet ? ”

And so, early the next morning, we went.
It was a delightful two hours on the wheel
in early October. Just as the country began
to grow more broken and interesting, and
chestnut trees began to strew the paths with
prickly burrs, we wheeled up a slight hill into
a quaint village, and dismounting, Gaillet
exclaimed:—

“ Here we are at home with Robinson
Crusoe ! ”

Had he told me that Robinson Crusoe
really lived in the flesh and, after returning
from his lonely adventures, founded this little
village, and here attempted to bring into
fashion his old habit of eating in the trees,
I would have believed it. For here is the
village bearing his name to this day; here
also, as seen in our first photograph, is his
effigy in the principal street, under his rough,
thatched umbrella, and with his parrot seated

From a Photo, by)

THE VILLAGE OF KOBINSON.

[L. Tiayly.

A TOWN IN THE TREE-TOPS.

203

upon his shoulder, as eveiy schoolboy knows
him. Here, likewise, are a number of great
trees, with two or three rustic dining-huts
built far up on the limbs of each ; and, as
Gaillet assured us, here, for the last fifty years,
men and their families have eaten in the trees
like squirrels.

As Bayly prepared to take the first photo¬
graph, he noticed that the highest dining-
stage in the tip-top of the biggest tree had
curtains drawn around it, which he asked to
have pulled back. A waiter informed him
that this rustic hut was engaged by a party.

“ Yes, I -tele¬
phoned down
yesterday after¬
noon, and re¬
served it for us,”
put in Gaillet.

“ I also ordered
the dejeuner. I
hope you will
like it: sole an
gratin and Cha¬
teaubriand aux
champignons.”

At that mo¬
ment the wind
left the leaves
and boughs at
rest, and Bayly
snapped the
shutter, regard¬
less of the cur¬
tains. I made re¬
ply to Gaillet:—

“ I never heard
of Crusoe’s fare
being quite so
pretentious as all
that. He must
have learned
cookery since he
came to France.”

“It is M.

Gueusquin aine
who claims the
credit for applying the tree idea to modern
dining. Doubtless he does it better than
Crusoe could have done. At any rate, he
has made a large fortune out of the idea—
far more than Defoe made out of his story.
It was just fifty years ago,” continued Gaillet,
“ that the father of the present proprietor here
was struck with the clever idea, bought this
picturesque plot of ground with large trees
on it, and built rustic dining-rooms on the
strongest branches. He called his lonely
little country place Robinson, after the Swiss

family which figures in the French version of
the romance, and invited the patronage of the
fun-loving Parisians who delight in fanciful
ideas of this sort. At that time it was
a long coach ride from the city, but it
soon became the popular j'endezvous for a
day’s outing. Since then Kings have dined
here; thousands of wedding parties have
seen life rosy from the tree-tops, and nearly
every Parisian boy who reads the story of
Robinson’s adventures is taken to this

quaint little village as a realistic sequel. M.
Gueusquin’s success tempted others into

similar ventures
here, so that now
nearly every large
tree is utilized,
and Robinson
has grown into
quite a respecta¬
ble village, whose
name will always
be associated in
the French mind
with breezy din¬
ners, family pic¬
nics, donkey¬
riding, bracing
country air, and
charming scen¬
ery. The Ligne
de Sceaux long
ago built a branch
line terminating
here, and a jour-
11 ey of forty
minutes by train
brings one down
from the Luxem¬
bourg Station in
Paris.”

Bayly evi¬
dently cared
little for these
facts, for he had
busied himself
getting a focus
on the largest tree, which M. Gueusquin
proudly advertises as “ Le Vrai Arbre de

Robinson.” You may see the result in

the accompanying photograph. Its massive
trunk has not much increased in size since
the stairway was built around it half a century
ago. There is one thatched hut built at the
first branch of the tree ; another well out on
a higher limb on the other side of the trunk ;
and the third and most desirable in the very
tip-top, from which one sees an enchanting
view of all the pretty country lying towards

From (l Photo. bn\ THE LARGEST ROBINSON TREE. [L. Bayly.

204

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

From a Photo, bll ] LARGE DINING-ROOM BETWEEN TWO TREES. {lillsworth l)0UglU88.

Paris. A stairway connects all these rustic
huts with each other, and in the busy season
a waiter is stationed at each dining stage,
and the wines and cooked foods are hauled
up to him from the ground by means of a
rope and basket running to each stage, as
will be seen in most of the photo¬
graphs. At wedding parties these
same baskets have more than once
served to lower away some bibulous
guest whose frequent toasts to the
bride have ended in a decided dis¬
inclination to attempt the giddy and
precipitous stairway.

Bayly went next to inspect a
larger and more modern dining-room
built between two young trees, and
I have caught him on the stairway
in the photograph above. But I was
anxious to climb to some height and
get a good view of the nest in the
tree-top where we were to breakfast.

I heard someone laughing at my first
futile attempts at climbing, but at last
I gained a point of vantage which
gave a view over the tops of the
trees to the indefinite stretch of
pretty valley beyond.

While breakfast was preparing we
visited the neighbouring inns to
photograph the trees. Just across
the road we found one which claims
the distinction of being the tallest in
Robinson. As will be Seen in the
photograph, it has three dining stages
one directly above another, so that

the same basket
may serve them
all. A waiter can
be seen in the top
stage of this thrifty,
sturdy chestnut, in
which many gene¬
rations may yet
dine.

Farther down
the road is a place
called the Maison
Robin, possibly in
the hope that the
kind public will
believe that the
“ true Robinson ”
was this Robin’s
son. Here is the
“ Great Chestnut,”
which truly looks
as if it might ante¬
date Robinson
Crusoe by centuries. Yet it still showers its
plenteous fruit upon the ground, and as we
kicked about its bushels of bursting burrs we
wondered how “ marron glace ” could be so
expensive in Paris. The next photograph
shows how the walks were sprinkled with

From a Photo. hy\

A THREE-STORY TREE.

[L, Baylu.

A TOWN IN THE TREE-TOPS.

205

From a Photo, by]

THE GREAT CHESTNUT.

ripe nuts ; and also some pretty samples of
the vine or ivy-covered bosquets for those
who prefer to dine on teri'a firma . These are
numerous, and charmingly pretty in
the gardens of most of the inns here.

Another great feature of Robinson
is the family picnic, but the French
love ease and comfort too much to
dine on the grass under the trees.

They prefer to sit properly at a table,
and many of the inns recognise the
right of visitors to bring their own
provisions, and are content with
serving them wines, coffee, and the
like. When you go to Robinson,
you are sure to recognise this place
at the turning of the road before
reaching the great trees.

I returned to our second stage with
Gaillet, and found the table laid, but
not a scrap of food to be seen. The
waiter was trotting up the stairs with
a heavily-loaded tray, on which was
an enormous plate of sole an gratin.

Gaillet remarked that it looked as if
the people in the top hut had not
only captured our place, but our
breakfast as well. He begged the
waiter to hurry our order, and then
asked me what I thought might be
going on up there behind the
curtains. It was very near us, and
perhaps for this reason the young
ladies refrained from audible con¬
versation. They only whispered
among themselves and laughed at in¬

next went past up
to the top story I
seized a yard of
bread from h is tray.
Looking down at
Bayly, who was
focusing below, I
cried out: “Lance¬
lot, if you are hun¬
gry, get a photo¬
graph of the only
morsel of food I
have been able to
secure before I de¬
vour it!” And our
last illustration bears witness that he did so.
This detailed view of a thatched, rustic hut
perched upon a big limb finished his work.

[Ellsworth Douglass.

From a Photo, by J

: VIEW OF A HUT ON A IJRANCH.

[L. Bayly.

tervals, but Gaillet
thought he sur¬
prised one or two
attempts to peep
around the curtain
at us. I was raven¬
ously hungry, and
when the waiter

AM afraid to face my Aunt
Sarah. Though how I am to
get out of it I don’t quite see.

At any rate, I will never
again undertake the work of a
private detective ; though that
would have been a more useful resolve a
fortnight ago. The mischief is done now.

The main bitterness lies in the reflection
that it is all Aunt Sarah’s fault. Such a

muddlesome old-but, there, losing my

temper won’t mend it. A few weeks ago I
was Clement Simpson, with very considerable
expectations from my Aunt Sarah and no
particular troubles on my mind, and I was
engaged to my cousin, Honoria Prescott.
Now I am still Clement Simpson (although
sometimes I almost doubt even that), but my
expectations from my Aunt Sarah are of the
most uncomfortable, and my troubles over¬
whelm me. As for Honoria Prescott-

but read and learn it all.

My aunt is a maiden lady of sixty-five,
though there is something about her appear¬
ance at variance with the popular notion of
a spinster, insomuch that it is the way of
tradesmen to speak of her as “ Mrs.” Simpson,
and to send their little bills thus addressed.
She is a very positive old lady, and she
measures, I should judge, about five feet
round the waist. She is constantly attended
by a doctor, and from time to time, in her
sadder moments, it has been her habit to
assure me that she shall not live long, and that
very soon I shall find myself well provided

for; though for an invalid she always ate
rather well: about as much, I should judge,
as a fairly healthy navvy. She had a great
idea of her importance in the family—in fact,
she was important—and she had—has now,
indeed—a way of directing the movements of
all its members, who submit with a becoming
humility. It is well to submit humbly to the
caprice of a rich elderly aunt, and it has
always been my own practice. It was because
of Aunt Sarah’s autocratic reign in the family
that Honoria Prescott and I refrained from
telling her of our engagement; for Aunt Sarah
had conceived vast matrimonial ambitions
on behalf of each of us. We were each to
make an exceedingly good marriage; there
was even a suggestion of a title for Honoria,
though what title, and how it was to be
captured, I never heard. And for me, I
understood there would be nothing less than
a brewer’s daughter, or even a company-pro¬
moter’s. And so we feared that Aunt Sarah
might look upon a union between us not only
as a flat defiance of her wishes, but as a
deplorable mesalliance on both sides. So,
for the time the engagement lasted (not very
long, alas !), we feared to reveal it. Now
there is no engagement to reveal. But this
is anticipating.

Aunt Sarah was very fussy about her jewels.
In perpetual apprehension lest they might be
stolen, she carried them with her whenever
she took a change of air (and she had a good
many such changes), while in her own house
she kept them in some profoundly secret

AUNT SARAH'S BROOCH.

207

hiding-place. I have an idea that it was
under a removable board in the floor of her
bedroom. Of course, w r e all professed to
share Aunt Sarah’s solicitude, and it had been
customary in the family, from times beyond

initials appeared on the frame of the brooch
behind—“ J.” on one side and “S.” on the
other. It was, on the whole, perhaps, the
ugliest and clumsiest of all Aunt Sarah’s
jewels, and I never saw anything else like it

my knowledge, to greet her first with inquiries
as to her own health, and next with hopes
for the safety of the jewels. But, as a matter
of fact, they were not vastly valuable tilings ;
probably they were worth more than the case
they were kept in, but not very much. Aunt
Sarah never wore them—even she would not
go as far as that. They were nothing but a
small heap of clumsy old brooches, ear-rings,
and buckles, with one or two very long,
thin watch-chains, and certain mourning
and signet rings belonging to departed mem¬
bers of the family who had flourished (or
not) in the early part of the century. There
were no big diamonds among them—scarcely
any diamonds at all, in fact; but the garnets
and cats’ eyes strove to make good in size
and ugliness of setting what they lacked in
mere market worth. Chief of all the “jewels,”
and most precious of Aunt Sarah’s posses¬
sions, was a big amethyst brooch, with a pane
of glass let in behind, inclosing a lock of the
reddest hair I have ever seen. It was the
hair of Aunt Sarah’s own uncle Joseph,
the most distinguished member of the
family, who had written three five-act
tragedies, and dedicated them all, one after
another, to George the Fourth. Joseph’s

anywhere, except one; and that, singularly
enough, was an exact duplicate—barring, of
course, the hair and the inscription—in a
very mouldy shop in Soho, where all sorts of
hopelessly out-of-date rings and brooches
and chains hung for sale. It was the way of
the shopkeeper to ticket these gloomy odds
and ends with cheerful inscriptions, such as
“Antique, 17s. 6d.,” “ Real Gold, £1 5s.,”
“ Quaint, £2 2s. 6d.” But even he could
find no more promising adjective for the
hideous brooch than “ massive ”—which was
quite true. He wanted ^3 for the thing
when I first saw it, and it slowly declined,
by half-a-crown at a time, to £\ 15s., and
then it vanished altogether. I wondered at
the time what misguided person could have
bought it; but 1 learnt afterward that the
shopkeeper had lost heart, and used the
window space for something else.

Aunt Sarah had been for six weeks at a
“ Hydropathic Establishment ” at Malvern.
On the day fixed for her return, I left a very
agreeable tennis party for the purpose of
meeting her at the station, as was dutiful and
proper. First I called at her house, to learn
the exact time at which the train was expected
at Paddington. It was rather sooner than I

208

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

had supposed, so I hurried to find a cab, and
urged the driver to drive his best. I am
never lucky with cabs, however—nor, I begin
to think, with anything else and the horse,
with all the cabman’s efforts, never got
beyond a sort of tumultuous shamble ; and
so I missed Aunt Sarah at Paddington. It
was very annoying, and I feared she might
take it ill, because she never made allow¬
ances for anybody’s misfortunes but her own.
prowever, I turned about and cabbed it back
as fast as I could. She had been home
nearly half an hour when I arrived, and was
drinking her third or fourth cup of tea. She
was not ill-tempered, on the whole, and she
received my explanations with a fairly good
grace. She had been a little better, she

herself stowed the case at the bottom of
her biggest and strongest trunk, which was
now upstairs, partly unpacked. My question
reminded her, and she rose at once, to trans¬
fer her valuables to their permanent hiding-
place.

I heard Aunt Sarah going upstairs with a
groan at every step, each groan answered by a
loud creak from the woodwork. Then for
awhile there was silence, and I walked to the
French window to look out on the lawn and
the carriage-drive. Put as I looked, suddenly
there came a dismal yell from above, followed
by many shrieks.

We—myself and the servants—found Aunt
Sarah seated on a miscellaneous heap of
clothes by the side of her big trunk, a picture

“ SHF. RECEIVED MV EXPLANATIONS WITH A FAIRLY GOOD GRACE.’

thought, during her stay at Malvern, but
feared that her health could make no
permanent improvement. And indeed there
seemed very little room for improvement in
Aunt Sarah’s bodily condition, and no more
room at all in her clothes. Then, in the
regular manner, I inquired as to the well¬
being of the jewels.

The jewels, it seemed, were all right.
Aunt Sarah had seen to that. She had

of calamity. “ Gone ! ” she ejaculated.
“Stolen! All my jewels! Stop thief ! Catch
’em ! My jewel-case ! ”

There was no doubt about it, it seemed.
The case had been at the bottom of the big
trunk —Aunt Sarah had put it there herself -
and now it was gone. The trunk had been
locked and tightly corded at Malvern, and it
had been opened by Aunt Sarah’s maid as
soon as it had been set down where it now

AUNT SARAH’S BROOCH.

209

stood. But now the jewel-case was gone,
and Aunt Sarah made such a disturbance as
might be expected from the Constable of the
Tower if he suddenly learned that the Crown
of England was gone missing.

“ Clement! 75 said my aunt, when she rose
to her feet, after sending for the police; “ go,
Clement, and find my jewels. I rely on your
sagacity. The police are always such fools.
But you—you I can depend upon. Bring
the jewels back, my dear, and you will never
regret it, I promise you. At least bring back
the brooch—the brooch with Uncle Joseph’s
hair and initials. That I must have, Clement! ”
And here Aunt Sarah grew quite impressive—
almost noble. “ Clement, I rely entirely on
you. I forbid you
to come into my
presence again
without that
brooch! Find it,
and you will be
rewarded to the
utmost of my
power! ”

Nevertheless, as
I have said, Aunt
Sarah took care to
call in the police.

Now what was I
to do ? Of course,

I must make an
effort to satisfy
Aunt Sarah ; but
how ? The thing
was absurd enough,
and personally, I
was in little grief
at the loss, but
Aunt Sarah must
be propitiated at
any cost. I was
to go and find the
jewels, or at least
the brooch, and
the whole world
was before me
wherein to search.

I was confused, not
to say dazed. I
stood on the pave¬
ment outside Aunt
Sarah’s gate, and I tried to remember what
the detectives I had read of did in such
circumstances as these.

What they did, of course, was to find a
clue—instantly and upon the spot. I
stared blankly up and down the street—it

was a quiet road in Belsize Park—but I

Vol. xvii.—27.

could see nothing that looked like a clue.
Perhaps the commonest sort of clue was
footprints. But the weather was -fine and
dry, and the clean, hard pavement was with¬
out a mark of any kind. Besides, I had a
feeling that footprints as a clue were a little
threadbare and out of date; they were so
obvious—so “ otiose ” as I have heard it
called. No respectable novelist would
depend on footprints alone, nowadays. Then
there was a piece of the thiePs coat, torn off
by a sharp railing, or by a broken bottle on
top of a wall; and there was also a lost but¬
ton. I remembered that many excellent
detective stories had been brought to breath¬
less and triumphant terminations by the aid
of one or other
of these clues. I
looked carefully
along the line of
broken glass that
defended the top
of Aunt Sarah’s
outer wall, but not
a rag, not a shred,
fluttered • there. I
tried to remember
something else,
and as I gazed
thoughtfully down¬
ward, my eye was
attracted by some
small black object
lying on the pave¬
ment by the gate.
I stooped —- and
behold, it was a
button ! A trouser
button, by all that’s
lucky !

I snatched it
eagerly, and read
the name stamped
thereon, “ J. Pul-
linger, London.” I
knew the name—
indeed i.t was the
name of my own
tailor. The scent
would seem to be
growing stronger.
But at that mo¬
ment I grew conscious of an uneasy subsi¬
dence of my right trouser-leg. Hastily
clapping my hand under my waistcoat, I
found a loose brace-strap, and then realized
that I had merely picked up my own button.
I went home.

I spent the evening in fruitless brain-

“ BEHOLD, IT WAS A BUTTON.

210

THE STRAND MAGAZINE,.

cudgelling. My brightest idea (which came
about midnight) was to go back to Aunt
Sarah’s the first thing in the morning. True,
she had forbidden me to come into her
presence without that brooch, but that, I felt,
must be regarded rather as a burst of rhetoric
than as a serious prohibition. Besides,
the case might have been stolen by one of
her own servants ; and, moreover, if I
wanted a clue, clearly I must begin my
search at the very spot where the theft had
been committed. She couldn’t object to
that, anyhow.

So in the morning I went. Aunt Sarah
seemed to have forgotten her order that I
must not approach her without the brooch,
but she seemed hurt to find I had not
brought it. She had had no sleep all night,
she said. She thought I ought to have dis¬
covered the thieves before she went to bed;
but at any rate, she expected I would do it
to-day. I said I would certainly do my best,
and I fear I found it necessary to invent a
somewhat exciting story of my adventures of
the previous evening in search of the brooch.

There*was a plain-clothes constable, it
seemed, still about the place, and the police
had searched all the servants’ boxes, without
discovering anything. Their theory, it
seemed, was that some thief must have
secreted himself about the garden, entered
by a French window soon after Aunt Sarah’s
arrival, made his way to the bedroom—
which would be easy, for there were two
staircases—and then made off with the case;
and, indeed, Aunt Sarah declared that the
clothes in the box were much disturbed
when she discovered her loss. The police
spoke mysteriously about “a clue,” but
would not say what it was—which, no doubt,
would be unprofessional.

All the servants had been closely ques¬
tioned, and the detective now in the place
wished to ask me if I had observed anything
unusual. I hadn’t, and I told him so. Had
I noticed whether any of the French windows
were open when I called the first time ?
No, I hadn’t noticed. I didn’t happen to
have called more than once before my aunt
had come in ? No, I didn’t. Which way
had I entered the house when I came back
after my aunt’s arrival ? By the front door,
in the usual way. Was the front door open ?
Yes, I remembered that it was—probably
left open by forgetfulness of the servants
after the luggage had been brought in ; so
that I had come in without knocking or
ringing. And he asked other questions
which I have forgotten. I did not feel

hopeful of his success, although he seemed
so very sagacious ; he spoke with an air of
already knowing all about it, but I doubted.
All my experience of newspaper reports told
me that when the police spoke mysteriously
of “a clue,” that case might as well be
given up at once, to save trouble. That
seemed also to be Aunt Sarah’s opinion.
Before I left she confided to me that she
didn’t believe in the police a bit; she was
sure that they were only staring about and
asking questions to make a show of doing
something, and that it would end in no result
after all. All the more, she said, must she
rely on me. The punishment of the thief was
altogether a secondary matter; what she
wanted were the jewels—or, as a minimum,
the brooch with Uncle Joseph’s hair in it.
She would be glad if I would report progress
to her during my search, but whether I did
so or not, she must insist on my recovering
the property. I was a grown man now, she
pointed out, and, with my intelligence, ought
to be easily equal to such a small thing ;
certainly more so than mere ordinary ignorant
policemen. Of those she gave up all hope.
She would not mind if I took a day or two
over it, but she would prefer me to find the
brooch at once.

I felt a little desperate when I left Aunt
Sarah. I must do something. She had
made up her mind that I was to recover the
trinkets, or at least the brooch, and if I failed
her she would cut me off, I knew. There
was a fellow called Finch, secretary to the
Society for the Dissemination of Moral Litera¬
ture among the Esquimaux, who had been
very friendly with her of late, and although I
had no especial grudge against the Esquimaux
as a nation, I had a strong objection to see¬
ing Aunt Sarah’s fortune go to provide them
with moral literature, or Mr. Finch with his
salary—the latter being, I had heard, the
main object of the society. I spent the day
in fruitless cogitation and blank staring into
pawnshop windows, in the remote hope of
seeing Aunt Sarah’s brooch exposed for sale.
And on the following morning I went back
to Aunt Sarah.

I confess I had a tale prepared to account
for my time—a tale, perhaps, not strictly true
in all its details. But what was I to do to
satisfy such a terrible old lady ? I must say
I think it was a very interesting sort of tale,
with plenty of thieves’ kitchens and re¬
ceivers’ dens in it, and, on the whole, it went
down very well, although I could see that
Aunt Sarah’s good opinion of me was in
danger for lack of tangible result to my

AUJVT SARAH'S BROOCH

211

adventures. The police, she said, had given
the case up altogether and gone away. They
reported, finally, that there was no clue, and
that they could do nothing. I came away,
feeling a good deal of sympathy with the
police.

And then the wicked thought came—the
wicked thought that has caused all the
trouble. Plainly, the jewels were gone irre¬
coverably— did not the police admit it?
Aunt Sarah would never see them again, and
I should be cut out of her will—unless I
brought her, at least, that hideous old brooch.
The brooch by this time was probably in the
melting-pot; but —there was, or had been, an
exact duplicate in
the grimy shop in
Soho. There was
the wicked idea.

Perhaps this dupli¬
cate brooch hadn’t
been sold. If not,
it would be easy
to buy it, stuff it
with red hair, and
take it back in
triumph to Aunt
Sarah. And, as I
thought, I remem¬
bered that I had
frequently seen a
girl with just such
red hair, waiting at
a cheap eating-
house, where I
sometimes passed
on my way home.

I had noticed her
particularly, not
only because of
the uproarious
colour of her hair,
which was striking
enough, but be¬
cause of its exact similarity in shade to
that in Aunt Sarah’s brooch. No doubt the
girl would gladly sell a small piece of it for a
few shillings. Then the initials for the
brooch-back would be easy enough. They
were just the plain italic capitals J and S,
one at each side, and I was confident that,
with the brooch before me, I could trace
their precise shape and size for the guidance
of an engraver. And Aunt Sarah would
never for a moment suppose that there could
be another brooch in the world at all like her
most precious “jewel.” The longer I
thought over the scheme the easier it seemed,
and the greater the temptation grew. Till

at last I went and looked in at the window
of the shop in Soho.

Was the brooch sold or not ? It was not
in the window, and I tried to persuade my¬
self that it must be gone. I hung about
for some little while, but at last I took
the first step in the path of deception. I
went into the shop.

Once there, I was in for it, and nothing
but the absence of the brooch could have
saved me. But the brooch was there, in all
its dusty hideousness, in a box, among scores
of others. I turned it over and over ; there
was no doubt about it—barring the hair and
the initials, it was as exact a duplicate as was
ever made. The
man asked two
pounds ten for it,
and I was in such
a state of agitation
that I paid the
money at once,
feeling unequal to
the further agony
of beating him
down to the price
he had last offered
it at in his window.

I slipped it into
my trouser pocket
and sneaked
guiltily down the
street. There was
no going back for
me now—fate was
too strong. I went
home and locked
myself in my room.
There I spent an
hour and a half in
marking the exact
position and size
of the necessary
initials. When all
was set out satisfactorily, I went back to
Soho again to find an engraver.

I might have gone to the shop where I had
bought the brooch, but I fancied that might let
the shopkeeper some little way into my secret.
I walked till I came to just such another
shop, and then, feeling, as I imagined, like
an inexperienced shoplifter on a difficult job,
I went in and gave my instructions. I offered
to pay extra if the work could be done at
once, and under my inspection. The engraver
eyed me rather curiously, I fancied, but he
was quite ready to earn his money, and in a
quarter of an hour I was sneaking along the
street again with the fraudulent brooch, one

“ THE FIRST STEF IN THE PATH OF DECEPTION.

212

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

step nearer completion. The letters, to my
eye at least, were as exactly cut as if copied
from the original. They were a bit too bright
and new, of course, but that I would remedy
at home, and I did. A little fine emery on
the point of my thumb, properly persevered
with, took off all the raw edges and the new¬
ness of appearance, and a trifle of greasy black
from a candle-wick, well wiped into the
incisions and almost all wiped out again, left
the initials apparently fifty years old at
least.

Next morning’s interview with Aunt Sarah
was one of veiled triumph. I was on the
track of the jewels at last, I said—or at any
rate, of the brooch. I might have to sacrifice
the rest, I explained, for the sake of getting
that. Indeed, I was pretty sure that I could
only get at the brooch. I could say no
more, just then, but I hinted that nothing
must be said to a soul, as my proceedings
might possibly be considered, in the eye of
the law, something too near compounding a
felony. But I would risk that, I assured
Aunt Sarah, and more, in her behalf. She
was mightily pleased, and said I was the
only member of the family worth his salt.
I began to think the Esquimaux stood a
chance of going short of moral literature, if
Mr. Finch were depending much on Aunt
Sarah’s will.

The rest seemed very easy, but in reality
it wasn’t. I set out briskly enough for the
eating-house, but as I neared it my steps
grew slower and slower. It seemed an easy
thing, at a distance, to ask for a lock of the
red-headed girl’s hair, but as I came nearer
the shop, and began to consider what I
should say, the job seemed a bit awkward.
She was a thick-set sort of girl, with very red
arms and a snub nose, and I felt doubtful
how she would take the request. Perhaps
she would laugh, and dab me in the face
with a wet lettuce, as I had once seen her
do with a jocular customer. Now, I am a
little particular about my appearance and
bearing, and I was not anxious to be dabbed
in the face with a wet lettuce by a red-haired
waitress at a cheap eating-house. If I had
known anybody else with hair of that extra¬
ordinary colour I would not have taken the
risk; but I didn’t. Nevertheless I hesitated,
and walked up and down a little before
entering.

There was no customer in the place, for it
was at least an hour before mid-day. The
girl issued from a recess at the back, and came
toward me. She seemed a terrible—a most
formidable girl, seen so closely. She had

small, sharp eyes, a snub nose, and a very large
mouth—the sort of mouth that is ever ready to
pour forth shrill abuse or vulgar derision. My
heart sank into my boots, I couldn’t—no, I
couldn't ask her straightaway for a lock of her
hair.

I temporized. I said I would have some¬
thing to eat. She asked what. I said I
would take anything there was. After a
while she brought a plate of hideous coarse
cold beef—like cat’s meat. This is a sort of
food I ca?inot eat, but I had to try. And
she brought pickles on a plate—horrid, messy
yellow pickles. I had often wondered as I
passed what gave that eating-house its un¬
pleasant smell, and now I knew* it was the
pickles.

I cut the offensive stuff into small pieces,
made as much show 7 of eating it as I could,
and shoved it into a heap at one side of the
plate. The girl had retired to a partly
inclosed den at the back of the shop,
w 7 here she seemed to be washing plates.
After all, I reflected, there w^as nothing to be
afraid of. It was a purely commercial
transaction, and no doubt the girl w 7 ould
be very glad to sell a little of her hair.
Moreover, the longer I waited the greater
risk I ran of having other customers come
in and spoil the thing altogether. There
w r as the hair—the one thing to straighten
all my difficulties, and a few 7 shillings w*ould
certainly buy all I w r anted. I rapped on the
table with my fork.

The red-haired girl came dow 7 n the shop
w r iping her hands on her apron—big hands,
and very red; terrible hands to box an ear
or claw* a face. This thought disturbed me,
but I said, manfully, “ I should like, if
you’ve no objection, to have—I should like
—I should like a-”

It w*as useless. I could??t say “ a lock
of your hair.” I stammered, and the girl
stared doubtfully. “ Caw*fy ? ” she suggested.

“Yes, yes,” I answered; eagerly, with a
breath of relief. “Coffee, of course.”

The coffee w 7 as as bad as the beef. It came
in a vast, thick mug, like a gallipot with a
handle. It ought to have been very strong
coffee, considering its thickness, but it had a
flat, rather metallic taste, and a general flavour
of boiled crusts.

I became convinced that the real reason of
my hesitation was the fact that I had not
settled how 7 much to offer for the hair. It
might look suspicious, I reflected, to offer
too much, but, on the other hand, it would
never do to offer too little. What w r as the
golden mean ? As I considered, a grubby,

AUNT SATAN’S BROOCH.

213

shameless boy put his head in at the door,
and shouted, “ Wayo, carrots ! What price
yer wig ? ”

The red-haired girl made a savage rush,
and the boy danced off across the street with
gestures of derision. Plainly, I couldn’t
make an offer at all after that. She would
take it as a deliberate insult—suggested by
the shout of the dirty boy. Perhaps she
would make just such a savage rush at me —
and what should 1 do then ? Here the matter

of reaching for a paper, or a mustard-pot, or
the like. But that was useless. I never
knew which way she would move next, and
I saw no opportunity of effecting my purpose
without the risk of driving the points of my
scissors into her head. Indeed, if I had
seen the chance, I should scarce have had
the courage to snip. And once, when she
turned suddenly, she looked a trifle sus¬
picious.

I attempted to engage her in conversa-

SHE LOOKED A TRIFLE SUSPICIOUS.”

was settled for the present by the entrance
of two coal-heavers.

For three days in succession I went to
that awful eating-house, and each day I ate,
or pretended to eat, just such an awful meal.
I shirked the beef, but I was confronted
with equally fearful bloaters—bloaters that
smelt right across the street. It occurred to
me, so criminal and so desperate had I
grown, that I might steal enough of the girl’s
hair for my purpose, by the aid of a pair of
pocket scissors, and so escape all difficulty.
With that design I followed her quietly down
the shop once or twice, making a pretence

tion, in order that I might, by easy and
natural stages, approach the subject of her
hair. It was not easy. She disliked hair as
a subject of conversation. I began to sus¬
pect, and more than suspect, that her hair
was the stock joke of the regular customers.
Not a boy could pass the door singing “ Her
golden hair was hanging down her back”
(as most of them did), but she bridled
and glared. Truly, it was very awkward.
But then, there was no other such hair, so
far as my observation had gone, in all
London, or anywhere else.

Some men have the easiest way imaginable

214

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

of dropping into familiar speech with bar¬
maids and waitresses at a moment’s notice,
or less. I had never cultivated the art, and
now I was sorry for my neglect. Still, I
might try, and I did. But somehow it was
difficult to hit the right note. My key varied.
A patronizingly uttered “ My dear,” seemed
a good general standby to begin or finish a
sentence; so I said : “ Ah — Hannah —
Hannah, my dear ! ”

The words startled me when I heard them
—I feared my tone had scarcely the correct
dignity. Hannah’s red head turned, and
she came across, grinning slily. “ Yus ? ”
she said, interrogatively, and still grinning.

I feared I had begun wrong. It was all
very well to be condescendingly familiar with
a waitress, but it would never do to allow the
waitress to be familiar with me. So I said,
rather severely, “ Just give me a newspaper.
Ah—Hannah! ”

I think I hit the medium very well with the *
last two words. “ Yus ? ” she said again, and
now she positively leered.

“ I—I meant to have given you sixpence
yesterday ; you’re very attentive, Hannah—
Hannah, my dear.” (That didn’t sound
quite right, somehow—never mind.) “Very
attentive. Here’s the sixpence. Er—er ”—
(what in the world should I say next ?)

“ What—er—what ” (I was desperate) “ what
is the latest fashion in hair ? ”

“Not your colour ain’t,” she said; “so
now ! ” And she swung off with a toss of her
red head.

I had offended her ! I ought to have
guessed she would take that question amiss
—I was a fool. And before I could apolo¬
gize a customer came in—a waggoner. I
had lost another day ! And Aunt Sarah
was growing more and more impatient.

At last I resolved to go at the business
point-blank, as I should have done at first.
Plainly it was my only chance. The longer
I made my approach, the more awkward I
got. I had the happy thought to take a
flower in my button-hole, and give it to
Hannah as a peace-offering, after my unin¬
tentional rudeness of yesterday. It acted
admirably, and I was glad to see a girl in
her humble position so much gratified by a
little attention like that. She grinned—she
even blushed a little—all the while I ate
that repulsive early lunch. So I seized the
opportunity of her good humour, paid for
the food as soon as I could, and said, with
as much business-like ease as I could
assume :—

“I—ah—I should like, Hannah, ah—if

you don’t mind—just as a—a matter of—of
scientific interest, you know — scientific
interest, my dear—to buy a small piece of
your hair.”

“ ’Oo ye gettin’ at ? ” she replied, with a
blush and a giggle.

“I—I’m perfectly serious,” I said—and I
believe I looked desperately so. “ I’ll give you
half a sovereign for a small piece—just a lock
—for purely scientific purposes, I assure
you.”

She giggled again, more than ever, and
ogled in a way that sent cold shivers all over
me. It struck me now, with a twinge of
horror, that perhaps she supposed I had con¬
ceived an attachment for her, and wanted
the hair as a keepsake. That would be
terrible to think of. I swore inwardly that
I would never come near that street again,
if only I got out safely with the hair this
time.

She went over into her lair, where the
dirty plates were put, and presently returned
with the object of my desires—a thick lump
of hair rolled up in a piece of newspaper.

I thrust the ' half-sovereign towards her,
grabbed the parcel, and ran. I feared she
might expect me to kiss her.

Now I had to employ another Soho
jeweller, but by this time, after the red-headed
waitress, no jeweller could daunt me. The
pane of glass had to be lifted from the back
of the brooch, the brown hair that was in it
removed, and a proper quantity of the red
hair substituted; and the work would be
completed by the refixing of the glass and
the careful smoothing down of the gold rim
about it. I found a' third dirty jeweller’s
shop, and waited while the' jeweller did
it all.

And now that the thing was completed, I lost
no time on the way to Aunt Sarah’s. I went
by omnibus, and alighted a couple of streets
from her house. It astonishes me, now, to
think that I could have been so calm. I had
never had a habit of deception, but now I
had slid into it by such an easy process, and
it had worked so admirably for a week or
more, that it seemed quite natural and
regular.

I turned the last corner, and was scarce a
dozen yards from Aunt Sarah’s gate, when I
was tapped on the shoulder. I turned, and
saw the detective who had questioned
me, and everybody else, just after the
robbery.

“ Good morning, Mr. Simpson,” he said.

“ Mr. Clement Simpson, I believe ? ”

“Yes,” I said.

AUNT SARAH’S BROOCH

215

“Just so. Sorry to trouble you, Mr.
Simpson, but I must get you to come along
o’ me on a small matter o’ business. You
needn’t say anything, of course; but if you
do I shall have to make a note of it, and it
may be used as
evidence.”

What was this ?

I gasped, and the
whole street seemed
to turn round and
round and over and
over. Arrested!

What for ?

Whether I asked
the question or only
moved my lips
silently, I don’t
know, but the man
answered—and his
voice seemed to
come from a dis¬
tance out of the
chaos about me.

“Well, it’s about
that jewel-case of
your aunt’s, of
course. Sorry to
upset you, and no
doubt it’ll be all
right, but just for
the present you
must come to the
station with me.

I won’t hold you
if you promise not
to try any games.

Or you can have a
cab, if you like.”

“ But,” I said, “ but it’s all a mistake—an
awful mistake ! It’s — it’s out of the
question ! Come and see my aunt, and
she’ll tell you ! Pray let me see my aunt! ”

“ Don’t mind obliging a gentleman if I
can, and if you want to speak to your aunt
you may, seein’ it’s close by, and it ain’t a
warrant case. But I shall have to be with you,
and you’ll have to come with me after, what¬
ever she says.”

I was in an awful position, and I realized
it fully. Here I was with that facsimile
brooch in my possession, and if it were found
on me at the police-station, of course, it would
be taken for the genuine article, and regarded
as a positive proof that I was the thief. In
the few steps to Aunt Sarah’s house I saw
and understood now what the police had been
at. I was the person they had suspected from
the beginning. Their pretence of dropping

the inquiry was a mere device to throw me off
my ground and lead me to betray myself by
my movements. And I had been watched
frequenting shady second-hand jewellery
shops in Soho ! And, no doubt I had been
seen in the low
eating-house where
I might be sup¬
posed to be leaving
messages for crimi¬
nal associates ! It
was hideous. On
the one side there
was the chance of
ruin and imprison¬
ment for theft, and
on the other the
scarcely less terrible
one of estranging
Aunt Sarah for ever
by confessing my
miserable decep¬
tion. Plainly I had
only one way of
safety — to brazen
out my story of
the recovery of the
brooch. I was
bitterly sorry, now,
that I had coloured
the story, so far as
it had gone, quite
so boldly. It had
gone a good way,
too, for I had been
obliged to add
something to it
each time I saw
Aunt Sarah during
my operations. But I must lie through
stone walls now.

I scarcely remember what Aunt Sarah
said when she was told I was under arrest
for the robbery. I know she broke a drawing¬
room chair, and had to be dragged off the
floor on to the sofa by the detective and
myself. But she got her speech pretty soon,
and protested valiantly. It was a shameful
outrage, she proclaimed, and the police were
incapable fools. “ While you’ve been doing
nothing,” she said, “ my dear nephew has

traced out the jewels and—and-”

“ I’ve got the brooch, aunt ! ” I cried, for
this seemed the dramatic moment. And
I put it in her hand.

“ I must have that, please,” the detective
interposed. “ Do you identify it ? ”

“ Identify it ? ” exclaimed Aunt Sarah,
rapturously. “ Of course I identify it ! I’d

“SORRY TO TROUBLE YOU, MR. SIMPSON.”

2 l6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

know my Uncle Joseph’s brooch among ten
thousand ! And his initials and his hair and
all ! Identify it, indeed ! I should think
so ! And did you get it from Bludgeoning
Bill himself, Clement, my dear ? ”

Now, “ Bludgeoning Bill ” was the name
I had given the chief ruffian of my story;
rather a striking sort of name, I fancied. So
I said, “Yes—yes. That’s the name he’s
known by—among his intimates, of course.
The police ” (I had a vague idea of hedging,
as far as possible, with the detective)—
“ the police only know his—his other names,
I believe. A—a very dangerous sort of
person ! ”

“And did you have much of a struggle
with him ? ” pursued Aunt Sarah, hanging
on my words.

“Oh, yes—terrible, of course. That is,
pretty fair, you know—er—nothing so very
extraordinary.” I was getting flurried. That
detective would look at me so intently.

“ And was he very much hurt, Clement ?
Any bones broken, I mean, or anything of
that sort ? ”

“ Bones ? O, yes, of course—at least, not
many, considering. But it serves him right,
you know—serves him right, of course.”

“ Oh, I’m sure he richly deserved it,
Clement. I suppose that was in the thieves’
kitchen ? ”

“Yes—no, at least; no, not there. Not
exactly in the kitchen, you know.”

“ I see ; in the scullery, I suppose,” said
Aunt Sarah, innocently. “ And to think that
you traced it all from a few footsteps and a
bit of cloth rag on the wall and—and what
else was it, Clement ? ”

“A trouser button,” I answered. I felt a
trifle more confident here, for I had found a
trouser button. “ But it was nothing much
—not actual evidence, of course. Just a
trifle, that’s all.”

But here I caught the policeman’s eye,
and I went hot and cold. I could not
remember what I had done with that trouser
button of mine. Had the police themselves
found it later ? Was this their clue ? But
I nerved myself to meet Aunt Sarah’s fresh
questions.

“ I suppose there’s no chance of getting
the other things ? ” she asked.

“No,” I answered, decisively, “not the
least.” I resolved not to search for any more
facsimiles.

“Lummy Joe told you that, I suppose?”
pursued my aunt, whose memory for names
was surprising. “Either Lummy Joe or the
Chickaleary Boy ? ”

“ Both,” I replied, readily. “ Most valuable
information from both—especially Chickaleary
Joe. Very honourable chap, Joe. Excellent
burglar, too.”

Again I caught the detective’s eye, and
suddenly remembered that everything I had
been saying might be brought up as evi¬
dence in a court of law. He was carefully
noting all those rickety lies, and presently
would write them down in his pocket-book,
as he had threatened ! Another question or
two, and I think I should have thrown up
the game voluntarily, but at that moment
a telegram was brought in for Aunt Sarah.
She put up her glasses, read it, and let the
glasses fall. “ What! ” she squeaked.

She looked helplessly about her, and held
the telegram toward me. “ I must see that,
please,” the detective said.

It was from the manager of the hydropathic
establishment at Malvern where Aunt Sarah
had been staying, and it read thus :—

“ Fou?id leather jeivel- case with your
initials on ledge up chinmey of room lately
occupied here . Presume valuable, so am send¬
ing on by special messenger .”

“ Why, bless me! ” said Aunt Sarah, as
soon as she could find speech; “ bless me !
I—I felt sure I’d taken it down from the
chimney and put it in the trunk ! ” And,
with her eyes nearly as wide open as her
mouth, she stared blankly in my face.

Personally I saw stars everywhere, as
though I had been hit between the eyes with
a club. I don’t remember anything distinctly
after this till I found myself in the street
with the detective. I think I said I preferred
waiting at the police-station.

It is unnecessary to say much more, and
it would be very painful to me. I know,
indirectly, through the police, that the jewel-
case did turn up a few hours later, with the
horrible brooch, and all the other things in
it, perfectly safe. Aunt Sarah had put it
up the chimney for safety at Malvern—just
the sort of thing she would do—and made a
mistake about bringing it away, that was all.
There it had stayed for more than a week
before it had been discovered, while Aunt
Sarah was urging me to deception and fraud.
That was some days ago, and I have not
seen her since; I admit I am afraid to go.

I see no very plausible way of accounting
for those two brooches * with the initials and
the red hair—and no possible way of making
them both fit with the thrilling story of
Bludgeoning Bill and the thieves’ kitchen.
What am I to do ?

AUNT SATAN’S BROOCH.

217

“she looked helplessly about hek.”

But I have not told all yet. This is the
letter I have received from Honoria Prescott,
in the midst of my perplexities :—

“ Sir, —I inclose your ring, and am sending
your other presents by parcel delivery. I desire
to see no more of you. And though I have
been so grossly deceived, I confess that even
now I find it difficult to understand your extra¬
ordinary taste for waitresses at low eating-
houses. Fortunately my mother’s kitchen-maid
happens to be a relative of Hannah Dobbs,
and it was because she very properly brought
to my notice a letter which she had received
from that young person that I learnt of your
scandalous behaviour. I inclose the letter
itself, that you may understand the disgust
and contempt with which your conduct
inspires me.—Your obedient servant,

“ Honoria Prescott.”
The lamentable scrawl which accompanied
this letter I have copied below—at least
the latter part of it, which is all that relates
to myself:—

“ Lore Jane i have got no end of a
yung swel after me now and no mistake,

quite the gent he is with a tori hatt

and frock coat and spats and he comes
here every day and eats what i know he

dont want all for love of me and he

give me a soffrin for a lock of my hare
to day and rushed off blushin awful he
has bin follerin me up and down the
shop that loving for days, and presents
of flowers that beautiful, and his name is
Clement Simpson i got it off a letter he
pulled out of his pocket one day he is
that adgertated i think he is a friend of
your missise havent i hurd you say his
name but I do love him that deer so now
no more from yours afexntely,

“Hannah Dobbs.”

Again I ask any charitable person with
brains less distracted than my own—What
am I to do ? I wonder if Mr. Finch will
give me an appointment as tract-distributor
to the Esquimaux ?

Vol. xvii.—28

A Record of 1811.

OR, A SHEEP’S COAT AT SUNRISE, A MAN’S COAT AT SUNSET.

By J. R. Wade.

T is no new thing for us to
see records established one
day and beaten the next, the
top place nowadays being no
sooner reached by one indivi¬
dual than challenged by an¬
other. The record in the manufacture of
cloth, however, with which this article deals,
though of eighty-eight years’ standing, has
never yet been eclipsed.

The scene of this remarkable achievement
in the sartorial art is the village of Newbury,
Berkshire, and it came about in this way.
Mr. John Coxeter, a then well-known cloth
manufacturer, the owner of Greenham Mills,
at the above-named village, remarked in the
course of conversation one day in the year
1811, to Sir John Throckmorton, Bart., of
Newbury, “ So great are the improvements
in machinery which I have lately introduced
into my mill, that I believe that in twenty-
four hours I could take the coat off your
back, reduce it to wool, and turn it back into
a coat again.” .

The proverb says, “ There’s many a true
word spoken in jest.” So great an impression
did Mr. Coxeter’s
boast make upon
the Baronet, that
shortly afterwards
he inquired of
Mr. Coxeter if it
would really be
possible to make a
coat from sheep’s
wool between the
sunrise and sun¬
set of a summer’s
day. That gentle¬
man, after care¬
fully calculating
the time required
for the various
processes, replied
that in his opinion
it could be done.

Not long after
the above conver¬
sation, which took
place at a dinner

party, Sir John Throckmorton laid a wager
of a thousand guineas that at eight o’clock
in the evening of June the 25th, 1811,
he would sit down to dinner in a well-
woven, properly-made coat, the wool of which
formed the fleeces of sheep’s backs at five
o’clock that same morning. Such an
achievement appearing practically impos¬
sible to his listeners, his bet was eagerly
accepted.

Sir John intrusted the accomplishment of
the feat to Mr. Coxeter, and shortly before
five o’clock on the morning stated, the early-
rising villagers of Newbury were astonished
to see their worthy squire, accompanied by
his shepherd and two sheep, journeying
towards Greenham Mills. Promptly at five
o’clock operations commenced, and no time
was lost in getting the sheep shorn. Our
first illustration, which is from an old print
executed at the time, shows the sheep being
shorn by the shepherd, and is worthy of
a little attention. Sir John stands in the
middle of the picture, having his measure¬
ments taken by the tailor, and it is an
interesting fact that, except that all imple-

A RECORD OF 1S11.

From an] making the cloth.

ments to be used were placed in readiness
on the field of action, the smallest actual
operations in the making of the coat were
performed between the hours mentioned.

Mr. Coxeter stands just behind the sheep-
shearer, watching with an anxious eye, whilst
to the right may be seen a tent, which was
erected presumably for refreshments, and
schoolboys climbing a greasy - pole and
generally making the best of the holiday
which had been accorded them in order that
they might witness this singular spectacle.

The sheep being shorn, the wool was
washed, stubbed, roved, spun, and woven,
and our next illustration, also from an old
print, shows the weaving, which was per¬
formed by Mr. Coxeter, junior, who had been
found by previous competition to be the most
expert workman. In the background of this
picture may be seen the carcass of one of
the sheep; of which more later. The
curious-looking objects in the basket, held,
by the way, by another of Mr. Coxeter’s sons,
are wool spools, while in the extreme back¬
ground, looking out of the window of a
qua’nt old cottage, may be seen “the gods
in the gallery.”

When we compare the primitive-looking
loom seen in this picture with the powerful
machinery of to-day, the record then estab¬
lished certainly becomes all the more
wonderful.

The cloth thus manufactured was next
scoured, fulled, tented, raised, sheared, dyed,
and dressed, being completed by four o’clock

THE FINISHED COAT.

From a Photo, by C. J. Coxeter, Abingdon.

in the afternoon,
just eleven hours
after the arrival
of the two sheep
in the mill-yard.

In the mean¬
time, the news of
the wager had
spread abroad
among the neigh¬
bouring villages,
bringing crowds
of people eager to
witness the con¬
clusion of this
extraordinary un¬
dertaking.

The cloth was
now put into the
hands of the
tailor, Mr. James
White, who had
void print. already got all
m eas urements
ready during the operations, so that not a
moment should be lost: and he, together
with nine of his men, with needles all

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

220

threaded, at once
started on it. For the
next two hours and a
quarter the tailors were
busy cutting out, stitch¬
ing, pressing, and sew¬
ing on buttons, in fact,
generally converting
the cloth into a “well
woven, properly made
coat,” and at twenty
minutes past six Mr.

Coxeter presented the
coat to Sir John Throck¬
morton, who put the
garment on before an
assemblage of over five
thousand people, and
sat down to dinner
with it on, together
with forty gentlemen,
at eight o'clock in the
evening.

Through the kind¬
ness of Sir William
Throckmorton, its
present owner, we are
able to give our readers,
in the illustration shown
at the bottom of the
previous page, a photo¬
graph of this wonderful
coat. The garment was
a large hunting-coat of the then admired
dark Wellington colour, a sort of a damson
tint. It had been completed in the space
of thirteen hours and ten minutes, the wager
thus being won with an hour and three-
quarters to spare.

To commemorate the event, the two sheep

who were the victims
of Mr. Coxeter’s energy
were killed and roasted
whole in a meadow
near by, and distri¬
buted to the public,
together with 120 gal¬
lons of strong beer,
this latter being the gift
of Mr. Coxeter.

Our next illustration
is a photograph of Mr.
Charles Coxeter, of
Abingdon, Berks, the
only living eye-witness
to this feat. He is the
younger brother to the
weaver of the cloth,
long since dead, who
is shown in our second
illustration. His present
age is ninety - three.
When approached on
the subject he said he
well remembered the
event, and recalls with
pleasure seeing the
workmen dine off por¬
tions of the sheep, in
a barge on the river
near the mill. The
original mill unfortu¬
nately no longer stands,
having long since been destroyed, a more
modern mill now occupying the site.

We now give an illustration of the silver
medal which was struck in honour of the
occasion. It is worded as follows :—

“ Presented to Mr. John Coxeter, of
Greenham Mills, by the Agricultural Society,

MR. CHARLES COXETER, THE ONLY LIVING
EYE-WITNESS.

From a Photo, by C. J. Coxeter, Abingdon.

A RECORD OR 1811.

221

for manufacturing
wool into cloth and
into a coat in thirteen
hours and ten
minutes.”

Mr. Coxeter was
a very enterprising
individual, for seem¬
ingly not content with
this wonderful
achievement, not
many years after, in
connection with the
public rejoicings for
peace after the Battle
of Waterloo, he had
a gigantic plum-pud¬
ding made, which was
cooked under the
supervision of twelve
ladies. This monster
pudding measured
over 2oft. in length,
and was conveyed to
his house on a large
timber waggon, drawn
by two oxen, which
were highly deco¬
rated with blue rib¬
bons. The driver was
similarly ornamented,
and bore aloft an old
family sword of state,
presumably to give
eclat to the occasion.
Arrived at its destina¬
tion, the pudding was
cut up in the cele¬
brated old mill-yard
at Greenham, and
distributed to all and
sundry, those who
had the good fortune
to partake of it pro¬
nouncing the pudding
to be “ as nice as
mother makes ’em.”

The famous coat,
which has found a
resting-place in a glass
case in Sir William

<&>

*!»

MANUFACTURING CELERITY

TO PROVE THE POSSIBILITY OF

WOOL

BEING MANUFACTURED INTO

CLOTH

AND MADE INTO A

GMT

333555

AND WHICH WAS SUCCESSFULLY ACCOMPLISHED

ON TUESDAY, THE 25(!i OF JUNE, 1811.

AT FIVE O'CLOCK THAT MORNIXO.

TWO SHEEP

BELONGING TO

SnUORN THROCKMORTON, BART.

WERE SHEARED 1IY HIS OWN SHEPHERD-

FRANCIS DRVETT,

AND THE WOOL GIVEN TO

MR. JOHN COXETER,

The WOOL Spun. The YARN Spooled, Warped,
Loomed, and Wove. The CLOTH Burred, Milled,
Rowed, Dyed, Dryed, Sheared, and Pressed

Uy I'onr o'clock—.ill the proeeiiei of Manufacture were

PERFORMED BY HAND IN ELEVEN HOURS.

The Cloth wot then (firm to

m. nm SBiTE. mm, oj seism.

II hate *S oh, James II AiTr, cut thr Coot out un<{ had it made up within

TWO HOURS AMD TWENTY MINUTES,

M Am the Mailer Manufacturer, Mr. John Coxclrr, presented it to

SIR JOHN THROCKMORTON, BART.

Who appeared r/*“ " * '

THIRTEEN HOURS & TWENTY MINUTES.

Till! prisons who look a prominent part on this interesting occasion, on- thus
popiteil out iu the llliihtrutiou of this extraordinary Manufacturing Celerity.

In lla- centre of the Picture, the Shepherd, Francis DltCETT. is rcnn-senleil
hheuring one of the Sheep;-behiml him. the Mailer Manufacturer. Mil. JOHN
CoXETEIt i—on Ills u-n. Mu. Isaac White, ihe Tailor, measuring Silt John
T linotKitOimiN for the Coat.—To hie IcB. in hloek. stmuls IL F. 0. VlLIXIIOIS,
„ bt ' r<>re llil "' M aU ' <I al ,l,c ,al,|t '. « Anthony Bacon, Esq.—T o the right
of Mu.C0XETEJt.sliii.il. Mlu John Locket, n Linn, Manufacturer of Dnii.ihig-
tout-facing him ami with bis back towards the-.pertoton. is Mu. Richard IHiii.iiy,
o| .NiAiiJiin. Hatcher ; I lie l oitth Iwsiilc him, is John Coxeteh, the Son of Mu
t II.M.TEII;—noil the one nilh Ihe Basket or Wool SpooliA, is his Son William—
Jolm i> ag.uu represented nl work at Ihe Loom. Ihe Lad> before him. his Mother
puukil hj auotl.er Son. Samuel, a ehihlj-thc Genllemm. standing »l
h». k ..r Mrs. Coxeteh and by the side of the Loom. Ls Mb. Jones, ilm (an,,,,

Throckmorton’s hall,
was exhibited at the
great International
Exhibition of 1851,
where it attracted a
great deal of atten¬
tion, a few copies of
the old engravings
from which our first
two illustrations are
reproduced being
eagerly bought up.
Our last photograph
shows the bill which
was printed for that
exhibition.

Over thirty years
afterwards the coat
was again brought
before public notice,
this time at the
Newbury Art and
Industrial Exhibition
of 1884. It was
photographed for the
first time, by Sir
William’s permission,
for this article.
Though to us it may
seem rather a curious
cut for a hunting-coat,
it was the approved
style for those times,
the long coat - tails
flying to the wind
during a chase. Need¬
less to say, however,
this coat has never
been used for that
purpose.

These are certainly
days of speed, and
though probably with
the vastly superior
machinery of to-day
this wonderful per¬
formance could be
eclipsed, it is interest¬
ing to notice that up
to the present it has
never been equalled.

bracket printer, stamp office. kkwbi,b» nr.it kb
BILL PRINTED FOR THE GREAT EXHIBITION OP 1851.

Animal Actualities.

Note .—These articles consist of a series of perfectly authentic anecdotes of animal life, illustrated
by Mr. j. A. Shepherd, an artist long a favourite with readers of The Strand Magazine. We shall
be glad to receive similar anecdotes, fully authenticated by names of witnesses, for use in future numbers.
While the stories themselves will be matters of Jact, it must be understood that the artist will treat the
subject with freedom and fancy, more with a view to an amusing commentary than to a mere repre¬
sentation of the occurrence.

IX.

fggjHIS is a tale of true love that no
social distinctions could hinder ;
t/A of a love that persisted in spite of
misfortune, disfigurement, and
poverty; of a love that ruled not
merely the camp, the court, and the grove,
but the back garden also: of a love that (as Mr.
Seaman sings) “ was strong love, strong as a

big barn-door ”; of a love that, no doubt,
would have laughed at locksmiths had the
cachinnation been necessary; that, in short,
was the only genuine article, with the proper
trade-mark on the label.

“ Pussy ” was the name of a magnificent
Persian cat—a princess among cats, greatly
sought by the feline nobility of the neigh-

MANY SUITORS.

ANIMAL ACTUALITIES.

223

bourhood. She was the sort of cat that no
merely individual name would be good enough
for ; her magnificence soared above all such
smallnesses, and, as she was the ideal cat,
combining all the glories and all the beauties
of cat-hood in herself, she was called, simply
and comprehensively, “ Pussy.” She con¬
descended to reside at the house, and at the
expense, of Mr.

Thomas C. Johnson,
of The Firs, Alford,

Lincolnshire, and all
the most aristocratic
Toms of the vicinity
were suitors for the
paw of this princess.

Blue Persians, buff
Persians, Manx cats,

Angora cats — all
were her devoted
slaves, and it was
generally expected
that she would make
a brilliant match.

She had a house (or
palace) of her own
at the back of Mr.

Johnson’s. Here
were her bed, her
larder — an elegant
shelf supporting her wire meat safe, and
her special knife and fork—for her meat
must be cut up for her—and her plate and
saucer. And here, by the door, many
suitors waited to bow their respects as
she came forth to take the air. But
Pussy, who trod the earth as though the
planet were far too common for her use,

turned up her nose at the noble throng, and
dismissed them with effective and sudden
language, conjectured to be a very vigorous
dialect of Persian.

Then came, meekly crawling and limping
to her door, one Lamech, a cat of low
degree and no particular breed. His only
claim to distinction of any sort was that he

had lost a leg perhaps in a weasel-trap.
He was ill-fed, bony, and altogether dis¬
reputable ; his ears were sore, and his coat
unkempt. He came not as a suitor, but as
a beggar, craving any odd scraps that the
princess might have no use for. So low was
he esteemed, indeed, that nobody called him
Lamech, his proper name, and he was

224

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

familiarly and contemptuously known as his regalement. There was intense com-

“ Three-legged Tommy.” When the princess’s motion among the scorned feline nobility,

human friends saw Three - legged Tommy Three-legged Tommy was actually admitted

hanging about, they regarded him as a into that sacred palace, from the portals of

nuisance and a probable offence in the sight
of the princess. Wherefore they chased him
mercilessly, tempering their severities, how¬
ever, by flinging him scraps of food, as far
out into the road as possible.

which the most distinguished cats in Alford
had been driven away !

As for Three-legged Tommy himself, he
grew not only more confident, but more
knowing. He came regularly at meal times.

PASSING THE SACRED PORTAL.

But presently a surprising thing was ob¬
served. Pussy actually encouraged Three-
legged Tommy ! More, she fed him, and
her last drop of new milk and her last and
tenderest morsel of meat were reserved for

More, he grew fatter, and less ragged. The
princess enjoyed her self-sacrifice for a time,
but presently she set herself to get a double
ration. Sharing her provisions was all very
loving and all very well, but she began to

ANIMAL ACTUALITIES.

225

feel that there were advantages in a full meal;
and Three-legged Tommy, now grown much
more respectable, though a hopeless plebeian
still, distinctly gave her to understand that he
could do with a bit more.

powerless to resist her, he would rise and
follow.

Meat it was, of course. And when it was
cut she would attack it with every appear¬
ance of ravenous hunger—till the master’s

Three-legged Tommy was the princess’s
first and only love, but next in her affections
ranked Mr. Johnson. It was her habit to
follow him about the house and garden, and
to. confide her troubles to him, sitting on his
knee. But now she tried stratagem. Five
or six times a day she would assail him with
piteous mews, entreating caresses, beseeching
eyes, and the most irresistibly captivating
manners she could assume. “ What can she
want?” he would say. “She has not long
been fed. Is it meat, old girl ? ” And,

back was turned. Then—“ Come, my love,
the feast is spread for thee ! ”

Out would limp Lamech from behind some
near shrub, and Pussy would sit with supreme
satisfaction and watch her spouse’s enjoy¬
ment of the meal she had cajoled for him.
And so Three-legged Tommy waxed fat and
prospered, and the Beautiful Princess was
faithful to him always. Miss Mary Johnson,
who was so kind as to send us the story, calls
Pussy “a devoted helpmeet.” We trust she
meant no pun.

226

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

TORTOISE has many virtues, as
for instance, quietness, dignity,
and lack of ambition. But, as a
rule, activity and courage are not
credited to the tortoise. This is
a little anecdote of a tortoise who displayed
both, in so far as to encounter, single-handed,
a terrible puppy more than a fortnight old,
and several inches high at the shoulder.

for slugs or other garden pests. The man
who sells them most solemnly avers they
have, but that is only his fancy; the tortoise
— at any rate, the tortoise he sells—is a
vegetarian, as well as a teetotaler and a non-
smoker. But as to the strawberry leaves,
these are longed for by the tortoise . even
more than lettuce leaves. Enthusiasm is not
a distinguishing characteristic of the tortoise,

A MATCH.

Though the tortoise’s lack of ambition
may be accepted as a general principle,
nevertheless it is relaxed in the ducal matter
of strawberry leaves. Every tortoise of the
sort we keep about our houses and gardens
has an ambition for strawberry leaves—to
eat. It may also be said as a warning
(having nothing to do with this anecdote)
that the tortoise has no ambition, or taste,

but when he is enthusiastic it is over
strawberry leaves. The tortoise of our anec¬
dote (he had no domestic name, such was
his humility) had the even tenor of his life
disturbed by a sudden inroad of puppies,
who made things very busy about him. The
puppies did not altogether understand the
tortoise, and the tortoise never wanted to
understand the puppies. But the puppies

A DRAG.

ANIMAL ACTUALITIES.

227

were playful and inquisitive. One morning,
just as the tortoise had laid hold of a very
acceptable “ runner ” of strawberry leaves,
a puppy, looking for fun, seized the other
end in his teeth and pulled. Something
had to go, and it was the strawberry

Was it really angry ? What would it do to
him ? His experience of tortoises was
small, and this one looked very threatening.
Perhaps the safest game was to drop the
strawberry leaves, at any rate. So dropped
they were, and the puppy sat back in the

A BOLT.

leaf the tortoise happened to be biting, close
by his mouth. Off went the puppy, trailing
the “ runner ” after him, the tortoise toiling
laboriously in the rear. Presently the puppy,
finding that speed was no accomplishment of
the tortoise, stopped at a corner and waited.

corner, a trifle apprehensive of what might
happen next. But the strawberry leaves
were all the tortoise wanted, and those he
snatched, and straightway squatted down
upon them. Then he ate them, little by little
and bite by bite, at his leisure, regarding the

Up came the tortoise, drums beating and
colours flying, metaphorically speaking,
and actually looking as threatening as a
harmless tortoise can manage to look.
“ Snap ! ” went the tortoise. The puppy
was nonplussed. What was this thing ?

puppy defiantly the while. And the puppy
carried to all his brothers and sisters a
terrible tale of the prowess of that crawling
monstrosity that ate leaves, and got formid¬
ably angry if you snatched them away for
fun.

T was midnight : the Witch
was sitting on an upturned
basket in the hen-house, star¬
ing at the Memory-Saver. No
one but a witch could have
seen at all inside the hen¬
house, but this particular Witch had gathered
pieces of decayed wood on the way there,
lit them at glow-worms, and stuck them on
the walls. They burnt with a weird, blue
light, and showed the old Witch on the
basket scratching her bristly chin ; the Black
Cock in a kind of faint up one corner, with
his eyes turned up till they showed the whites;
the empty nest ; the halves of a broken
egg-shell on the floor ; and beside them a
tiny round black lump with all sorts of queer
little tags hanging on to it, which was staring
back at the Witch with two frightened little
pink eyes.

“ It’s quite a new idea,” said the Witch to
herself. “ A Memory-Saver ! How thankful

many people would be to get hold of one !
But they don’t know the way, and they won’t
ask me. They don’t know how to hatch an
imp to save your memory from a cock’s egg.
They even say that a cock never lays eggs.
Such ignorance ! Cocks always lay them at
midnight and eat them before morning;
and that’s why no one has ever seen one.
But if you are careful to sprinkle the
cock with Witch-water three nights running,
he will lay an egg he cannot eat; and if
you bless the egg with the Witch’s curse,
and roast it three nights in the Witch’s Are,
when the moon is on the wane, it will hatch
a Memory-Saver. But poor mortals don’t
know this, and that’s why they’re. always
worrying and ‘ taxing their memories,’ as
they call it, instead of hiring a nice little imp
to save them the trouble. Come here, my
dear ! ” she added, addressing the Memory-
Saver.

The little black lump rolled over and over

THE MEMORY-SAVER.

229

until he reached her feet, then gave a jump
and landed on two of the thickest of his tags,
which supported him like two little legs.
With two others he began to rub his little
black self all over, while he shed little green
tears from his little pink eyes.

He was a queer little person, very like an
egg in shape, with no features but a pair of
little pink eyes near the top, and a wide slit
which went about half-way round him and
served him for a mouth. The Witch re¬
garded him in silence; she knew that inside
him was nothing but a number of little
rooms, carefully partitioned off from one
another, which could be emptied by pulling
the tag attached to each outside.

There was no sound in the hen-house but
the frightened clucking of the hens, the
gasping of the Black Cock in the corner, and
the sobbing of the imp, which sounded like
the squeaking of a slate-pencil on a slate.
Presently the Witch patted the Memory-
Saver on the head.

“ Don’t cry, my dear,” she said ; “ there’s
nothing to cry about! And don’t look at that
silly Black Cock in the corner. He isn’t
your Mother any longer. I’m your Mother
now—at least, all the Mother you’ll get, and
I shall pinch you if you don’t work. I’ll
just see if you are in good working order
now.”

She lifted the imp in her hand as she
spoke, and pulled one of the little tags
hanging behind him. The Memory-Saver
gave a gasp, and, opening his mouth to its
widest extent, he began to repeat, rapidly :
“ J’ai—tu as—il a—nous avons—vous avez—
ils ont.”

' “ Very good! ” said the Witch, “ the
French string is in order. I’ll try the
poetry.”

She pulled another tag as she spoke.

Th 5 Assyrian camedownlike a wolfonthefolcl,

And—his cohorts were—gleaminglike purpleandgold ;
And the—sheenoftheir—spears was like starsonthe

sea,

When the blue—wavesroll—nightly on deepGalilee

panted the Memory-Saver.

“ A little jerky,” said the Witch, doubling
the strings round the imp and putting him
in her pocket; “ but it will work smoother
in time. It’s a splendid idea,” she went on,
as she buttoned her cloak and opened the
door. “ A Memory-Saver ! Pull the string of
the subject you want (the name is written on
each tag), and the imp will tell you all about
it. Read a set of lessons to him, and then pull
the strings belonging to them, and he’ll reel
them all off word for word. How many

children I now would like to get him to
take to sch ' M in their pockets ! There’s
little Miss Myra, who is always in trouble
about her less ns; she would give all she’s got
for him. But 1 ’ll only part with him at my
own price.”

The Witch lvd left the hen-house, and
was trotting as fast as she could down
a little woodland path. The poor little
Memory-Saver wa*. jogged this way and that
among the rubbisn in the Witch’s pocket
—queer stones, herbs, little dead toads,
pounded spiders, and bats’wings. He would
soon have been black with bruises if he had
not been black by nature. But the worst
pain he suffered was anxiety as to what would
become of him. What was the Witch going
to do with him ? Why had she taken him
away from the Black Cock, who at least
was friendly if he did gasp and show the
whites of his eyes? The imp cried again,
and wondered how long he would have to
stay in that choky pocket.

He had not long to wait. That very
afternoon the Witch saw Myra crying over
her lessons at the window. She was kept
in to learn them, and was feeling miserable
and cross. No one was about, so the
Witch crept up to the window, and told her
all about the Memory-Saver, ending by pro¬
ducing him from her pocket. Oh ! how glad
he was to get out ! He sat gasping with
delight on the Witch’s hand, while she ex¬
plained his talents to someone. Who was
it ? The imp looked up and saw a little girl
about ten years old, with an inky pinafore,
and long, tumbled brown curls. She looked
so much nicer than the Witch, that the
Memory-Saver gazed up in her face with a
forlorn little smile—or at least a smile that
would have been “ little ” if his mouth had
not been so wide.

“ What a queer little thing ! ” cried Myra.
“ I should like to have him, only—how could
he do all you say ? ”

“ Just listen,” said the Witch, pulling a
string.

“William I., 1066—William II., 1087

Henry I., 1100—Stephen, 1135.

said the Memory-Saver, solemnly.

Myra danced with delight.

“ Oh, he’s splendid ! ” she cried. “ He’s
just what I want. I never can remember
dates. Oh, how much does he cost ? I’m
afraid I haven’t enough money.”

“ I’m sure you haven’t,” said the Witch.
“ I wouldn’t part with him for untold
gold.”

“ Then it’s no use,” said Myra, sadly. “ I

230

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

haven’t even got told gold, only *
and twopence-ha’penny.”

“ You’ve got something else that
better,” said the Witch, coaxingly. ‘
your brother a
large collection of
moths and butter¬
flies?”

“ Yes,” said
Myra, looking
rather puzzled ;

“but what has
that to do with
it?”

“Show me the
top drawer of his
cabinet, dear,”
said the Witch.

Myra walked to
the cabinet, still
wondering, drew
out the top drawer,
and took it to the
window.

The Witch
looked up and
down the long
rows of moths,
each with its wings
outspread on a
separate pin. At
last she picked
out a great death’s-
head, and looked
at it lovingly. It
was a beautiful
specimen, just
what she wanted
wonderful mixture

ree shillings

will do
: Hasn’t

‘\VHAT a QUEER LITTLE THING !’ CRIED MYRA.”

for her latest potion, a
that would enable you to
turn fifteen cart-wheels on a cobweb without
breaking it. “ I’ll give you the Memory-
Saver for this,” she cried, eagerly.

“ Oh, but it isn’t mine ! ” said Myra,
hastily pulling back the drawer.

“ It’s your brother’s, dear,” coaxed the
Witch. “ You know he would not mind.”

“ He would,” said Myra ; “ it’s his best
specimen; he told me so yesterday.”

“ Well, it does him no good in the
drawer,” pleaded the Witch; “ and the

Memory-Saver would prevent your being
scolded and punished for not knowing your
lessons, as you are almost every day. Besides,
you could easily save your pocket-money and
buy him another moth.”

“They’re so dear ! ” sighed Myra. “But
grandma always gives me half a sovereign .at
Christmas. Well, if you like-”

Myra always maintains that she never gave

the Witch permission to take the moth ; but,
as she spoke, they both vanished, and Myra
only saw the drawer with the big gap in its
row of moths where the death’s-head had

been, and the
Memory - Saver
grinning ecstati¬
cally at her from
the window - sill.
Poor little fellow;
he was so glad to
get away from the
Witch’s pocket.

Myra’s first
thought was to
move the pins of
the other moths,
so as to fill up
the big gap.

“Then perhaps
he won’t notice
it’s gone,” she said
to herself; “ and,
as the Witch said,
it didn’t do him
any good in the
drawer.”

Then she took
up the little
Mem o r y-Saver
and examined
him curiously. He
was a funny little
creature — funnier
than ever just
now, for he was
trying to express
his joy at his change of mistresses, which
produced a violent commotion in all his
tags, and considerably enlarged his mouth.
Myra couldn’t help laughing, but as she was
rather afraid of offending the Memory-Saver,
she begged his pardon immediately, and
made him a comfortable seat on some books
on the table.

“ Now, Memory-Saver,” she said, “ I’m
going to read my lessons aloud to you, as
the Witch told me. Then you’ll know them
all, won’t you ? ”

The Memory-Saver nodded so emphatic¬
ally, that he fell off the books. Myra picked
him up, examined him anxiously to see if he
were hurt, and, finding he was not, sat him
down again.

“ I’ve got two lots of lessons to do,” she
said, mournfully, “yesterday’s and to-day’s.
Could you do both at once, or would it
strain you too much ? ”

The Memory-Saver shook himself off his

THE MEMORY-SAVER.

231

seat this time, in his eagerness to assure her
he could do twenty lots if necessary. When
he was once more settled comfortably, Myra
began to read. The Memory-Saver sat con¬
tentedly absorbing french, and geography,
and tables.

“ I wonder if you really know it all,” said
Myra, gravely, when she had finished. “No,
don’t nod any more, or you will fall off
again. I’ll just try one string.” She took
him up, found the one marked “Tables,”
and gave it a gentle tug.

“ Once nine is nine, twice nine are
eighteen, three times nine are twenty-seven,”
said the Memory-Saver, glibly.

“ Stop ! Stop ! that will do ! ” cried Myra,
delighted. “ Don’t use it all up before to¬
morrow.”

The next thing was to find somewhere to
keep her new treasure—some place where
no one could find him ; for Myra felt certain
that the stupid grown-up people would not
approve of her imp, or see his usefulness as
clearly as she did.

“ They always say, ‘ If at first you don’t
succeed, try, try again,’ and ‘ You must cul¬
tivate your memory,’ when I tell them I can’t
remember my lessons,” she said to herself.
“They would take the Memory-Saver away
from me if they found him. I must put it
somewhere so that they can’t find him.”

Such a place was not easy to find, but at
last Myra fixed on the top of the wardrobe in
her bedroom.

“They only dust there at spring cleaning
time,” she said to herself, “and 1 can move
him then.”

So she filled a box with cotton-wool, put
the Memory-Saver in it, and placed it on top
of the wardrobe.

“ Are you quite comfortable ? ” she asked ;
and the Memory-Saver almost nodded him¬
self out of his box in his joy. It was
Paradise after the Witch’s pocket.

“ What a good thing he doesn’t want any¬
thing to eat,” thought Myra, noticing with
satisfaction that the woodwork of the ward¬
robe quite hid him from anyone below.
“ The Witch said he feeds on the lessons.
How horrible ! I shouldn’t like French
verbs for breakfast, and grammar for dinner.
They can’t be satisfying, but anyhow, they’re
easy to get. I always have more than I
want.”

For some days the Memory-Saver was a
great success. Myra put him carefully in
her pocket before she went to school, and
pulled the right string when she was called up
to say her lessons. His voice was rather a

sing-song, but that couldn’t be helped. Miss
Prisms, the schoolmistress, sent home to
Myra’s delighted mother a report that her
little girl was making wonderful progress in
everything but arithmetic and writing. In
these, alas, the Memory-Saver could not help
her. He could say tables, and weights and
measures, but could not do sums in his head,
for the simple reason that he had no head.

At first he was very happy, for Myra took
great care of him ; but by degrees she grew
careless. She found out he was quite as
useful when treated roughly as when treated
kindly, and as it was less trouble to treat him
roughly, she did so.

“ Why can’t you do mental arithmetic ? ”
she asked him, severely, one day when she
had got into trouble over her sums. “ Aren’t
you ashamed to be so ignorant, you little
imp ?”

The Memory-Saver waved his little tags in
a wild attempt to explain that it was because
he hadn’t got a mind, only two little pink
eyes, a big mouth, and a lot of little partitions
inside him to keep the different kinds of
knowledge apart. Unhappily the many bumps
he had had lately had been very bad for
his internal constitution, even if the bruises
had not shown outside ; the partitions were
beginning to leak. All this he tried to explain
by waving his little arms and legs. But
Myra was unsympathetic and did not under¬
stand him. She scolded him heartily, and
was not even melted by the little green
tears that trickled from his little pink
eyes into his big mouth. But she was to
be punished for it. The poor little Memory-
Saver had to remember all that was said
to him whether he liked it or not, and so,
when Myra pulled the geography string
next morning in school, he began : “ England
is bounded on the north by Scotland ....
why can’t you do mental arithmetic ? . . . .
on the south by the English Channel ....
aren’t you ashamed .... on the east by the
German Ocean .... to be so ignorant
. . . and on the west by the Irish Sea
. . . . you little imp .... and St. George’s
Channel.”

“ Myra ! ” gasped Miss Prisms, and for at
least two minutes could say no more.

“ I—I—didn’t mean anything,” stam¬
mered Myra, blushing crimson and ready
to cry.

“ 1 should hope not,” said Miss Prisms,
severely. “You will learn double lessons
for to-morrow, Myra.”

“ It’s all your fault! ” said Myra, angrily,
to the Memory-Saver, when she got home.

232

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“You must learn all the lessons for me, and
then I’m going to slap you, do you hear ?
You horrid little thing ! ”

The Memory-Saver heard well enough, and
understood too. Myra was in a very bad
temper. Her brother had discovered that
his death’s-head moth was missing, and was
making what Myra called a “ridiculous fuss”

about it. He had not asked her if she knew
where it was, but she felt very uncomfortable
all the same. She did not think he would
have minded so much. Being uncomfortable,
she was cross ; and as she dared not be cross
with Miss Prisms, she was cross with the
Memory-Saver, and fulfilled her promise of
slapping him when he had done the double
lessons for her. She was too absorbed in her
own trouble to notice that his box was half off
the wardrobe top when she put him—not over-
gently—into it; and the bump with which
she landed on the floor as she got down from
the chair on which she had been standing
quite drowned the bump the box made, as it
fell behind the wardrobe. The poor little
Memory-Saver fell out with a crash, and lay
half stunned, feebly waving his little tags.
No one came to pick him up, so he lay there
all through the long, dark night. He was
cracked all over, and something very peculiar

had happened to his interior. In fact,
though he did not know it, all the partitions
had at last given way, and the French, history,
spelling, geography, and tables had run into
one another, and were now all mixed in one
great pulpy mass inside him. No wonder
he felt uncomfortable !

When Myra came for him in the morning
she found out what had hap¬
pened. She fished him out
from behind the wardrobe
with a good deal of difficulty,
and looked at him in conster¬
nation. He was sticky all
over with the tears he had
shed, was very soft and limp,
and, worst of all, was leaking
the Wars of the Roses and
the chief towns of France
from more than one crack.
However, Myra was late as
it was ; she had no time to
examine him carefully. She
put him in her pocket, and
ran off to school. She put
her hand in her pocket to
feel if he were safe as soon
as she got to her seat. He
felt softer and stickier than
ever. Would he be able to
say the lessons ? Myra felt
doubtful, but as she did not
remember a word of them
herself, she was obliged to
trust to him. Trembling she
pulled the “ Poetry ” string,
when Miss Prisms called on
her for her lesson. The
Memory-Saver gasped and began ; each
word hurt him very much to bring out,
but as they came he began to feel strange
and light, happier than he had ever felt
before. This is what he said : “A chief¬
tain to the Highlands bound—cries — the
feminine of adjectives is formed by adding
eleven times nine are Rouen, former capital
of Normandy, and heir presumptive to the
throne by his descent from the son of
Edward III., eleven times twelve are le pbre,
the father, la mere, the mother—Oh, I’m
the chief of Ulva’s isle, and this, Paris on
the Seine . . .

“ Myra, stop at once ! ” cried Miss Prisms,
angrily ; but Myra, or, rather, the Memory-
Saver, could not stop. His internal parti¬
tions were gone, and whichever string was
pulled, he was obliged to let out all that was
inside him. So for ten dreadful minutes he
went on, pouring out French, geography,

“ HER BROTHER WAS MAKING A ‘ RIDICULOUS FUSS.'

THE MEMORY-SAVER.

2 33

history, and tables in one terrible mixture,
while Myra wished she could sink through
the floor, the girls tittered, and Miss Prisms’
anger changed to anxiety. She began to fan

THE GIRLS TITTERED.

Myra with an exercise-book, begged her to
be quiet, and assured her she would be
“ better directly,” . At last, however, the
Memory - Saver came to an end ; he
would have been much longer, but a great
deal had leaked out of him in the night.

“ Twelve twelves are a hundred and forty-
four—Bayonne, at the mouth of the Adour,
mounted the throne as Henry VII.,” he
concluded.

Myra burst out crying. Miss Prisms made
her take sal-volatile and lie on the sofa in
her sitting-room. As soon as school was
over, she took Myra home herself, and told
her mother the little girl must be going to
have brain-fever. The doctor was called in
and shook his head, looking very wise,
although he could find nothing at all the
matter with Myra. “ It is a curious case,”

Vol. xvii.—30

he said ; “ let her stay away from school for
a week, and send for me if another attack
comes on.”

Myra was not sorry for the holiday ; it
gave her time to
examine the Memory-
Saver carefully. She
ran through the gar¬
den to a little nook
by the duck - pond,
where no one could
see her, before she
dared take him out
of her pocket and
look at him ! Poor
little Memory-Saver !
She could hardly
recognise him as the
round, plump, cheery
little fellow' who had
first beamed at her
from the window-sill.
He was quite flat,
for Myra had sat on
him in her excite¬
ment ; he was soft
and pulpy ; his little
pink eyes had re¬
lost colour, and his
opened and shut in
gasps, like that of a fish out of water.

Myra gazed at him horrified. What could
she do to revive him? She turned him over
and fanned him with a dock-leaf, but he only
gasped. Then she tried the effect of a little
geography, but the result was disastrous ; as
fast as it entered the poor little imp, it oozed
out again all over him, and he turned almost
green with pain.

“ Why are you tormenting my offspring ? ”
said a sharp, angry voice at Myra’s elbow.
“ Leave him alone, or give him to me ; I’m
hungry ! ”

It was Myra’s turn to gasp now; the
Black Cock had never spoken to her
before, and she did not even know he
could talk. She looked at him .more than
half-frightened.

treated and
great mouth

isn t yours,

he’s

she

“ He—he
stammered.

“ Yours, indeed ! ” crowed the Black Cock,
indignantly, “when / had all the trouble of
laying him ! Wasn’t he hatched from one
of my eggs at midnight, and stolen by the
Witch ? ”

“ I didn’t know he was,” said Myra.

“Well, now you do ! ” retorted the Cock,

: Give him
hungry ?

! Didn’t I tell

you

2.34

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

“ But you wouldn’t eat your own child ? ”
cried Myra, aghast.

“ Child or not,” said the Black Cock, “ no
kind of beetles come amiss to me.”

“ He isn’t a beetle, he’s a Memory-Saver,”
said Myra. The Black Cock laughed, and
Myra shrank back ; she had never heard a
Black Cock laugh before, and felt she would
not be sorry to never hear it again; it was
not a pleasant sound.

“ I don’t know anything about Memories,”
said the Black Cock ; “ but look at him,
and then tell me he’s not
a beetle! ”

Myra looked anxiously.

Certainly something very
curious was happening to
the Memory-Saver : his little
tags had arranged them¬
selves in rows underneath
him ; he was growing longer,
he was very like a beetle.

He was a beetle ! -

Myra, who could not bear
beetles, rose with a scream
and threw him out of her
lap on to the mud. The
Black Cock rushed at him
scuttled towards the
but Myra drove him
and allowed the
Memory-Saver time to reach
the pond. She gave a little
sigh of relief as he dis¬
appeared, while the Black
Cock gave an angry crow,
turned his back on Myra,
and stalked back to the
poultry yard. He never
spoke to her again, but
whether it was because Ik
was too offended, or for
other reasons, Myra never
knew.

“ After all,” she thought, as
she went home, “ I’m glad he turned into
a water-beetle. It must be much more
comfortable than always being full of lessons.
I suppose he’ll live on mud now. I hope
he’ll be happy. He was a good little
fellow, and I wish I’d been kinder to him.
How interested they will all be at home
when I tell them about him ! ”

But they were not. They said she must
be going to have brain-fever, and sent for the
doctor again. The only part of her story
they believed was that she had taken her
brother’s moth from the cabinet, and this
they said was naughty, and she must save up
her pocket-money and buy another.

u I’ll never, never tell a grown-up person
anything again ! ” thought Myra.

As for the Memory-Saver, at the bottom of
the pond he met a pretty young lady water-
beetle, and asked her to marry him at once,

as he
water,
back,

■ SHE THREW HIM OUT OF HER LAP.

which she did. He raised a large family,
and lived very happily ever after. None of
the ducks dare touch him for fear of the
Witch, so that he found life much more
pleasant than when he was a Memory-Saver.
Myra often walked round the pond, looking
for him, but she never saw either him or the
old Witch again.

Curiosities*

[We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section, and to pay for such as arc accepted .]

A MAMMOTH SHIRT.

The immense shirt seen in the illustration below was
constructed for a shirtmaker at Sioux City, Iowa. It
was mounted on a bicycle and figured in the parades
of the Carnival Festival in October of last year. The
yoke measured 5ft. 2in. from shoulder to shoulder,
waist 21 ft. 3m., height 8ft., and collar size 57m.
and I2in. high. Twenty-five yards of muslin were
used in making it, and the ironing of the bosom
was no small job, taking an expert 2% hours. Our
photograph was taken on “ Bicycle Day.” Pre¬
viously, on “ Industrial Day,” it had taken first
prize as the most novel exhibit. On that day the
bicycle riders were not in evidence, nor was the
man in the collar, the shirt gliding gracefully
along the street without apparent motive power.
The photograph was sent in by Mr. E. Davis, Sioux
City, Iowa, U.S.A.

ENTERPRISE
EXTRAORDINARY—
AND ITS RESULT.

In the spring of each
year the enterprising
firm of Cartwright and
Headington, of Port¬
land, Ind., U.S.A.,
present their customers
with pumpkin seed,
offering substantial
prizes for the heaviest
pumpkin grown from
their seed. The speci¬
men seen in our photo.,
which was sent in by
Mr. Clyde S. Whipple,
of the Auditorium,
Portland, is the prize¬
winner out of 140
competitors. It weighs
1531b., and is 7ft. in
circumference. The
little boy inside is four
years old.

ANOTHER TRADE
TROPHY.

This charming model of
Conway Castle and Bridge
is made entirely from
tobacco and cigarettes,
and is the work of Mr.
John H. Harrison, of 247,
West Derby Road, Liver¬
pool. Mr. Harrison writes
as follows : “ The length
of the model, which I
am exhibiting in my win¬
dow, is Sift.; depth, 2ift.;
height, from surface of
water to top of towers, 3 ft.
The real genuine article
is used for the water, in
which gold - fish disport
themselves, although for
the purposes of the photo,
we .ubstituted mirrors.
This model has been a
great source of attraction.”

From a Photo, by Uickin tb Sluter , Liverpool.

236

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

the window or by the magnificent iron-plated door,
but this wonder gives place to amazement when one
notices the size of the patriarch’s hand (seen through
the window), and commences to speculate on how he,
his children, and the animals find accommodation for
their grand proportions in this small boat ; the
problem of packing them would tax the ingenuity of
a sardine-merchant. Photo, sent in by Mr. A. S.
Reid, Trinity College, Glenalmond.

FACES IN A MAPLE KNOT.

At first sight this photo, looks like an ancient
gargoyle off some church tower, but it is in reality
nothing more or less than a knot ol maple, found near
Mausaukee, YVis., U.S.A., by a man of that town.
The finder positively asserts that no knife has been

FOR THE USE OF CHORISTERS.

Here we see a gigantic “singing trumpet,” which
is preserved in East Leake Parish Church, Northamp¬
tonshire. Only four or five specimens of these
trumpets are now in existence. They appear to have
been used in some of the Midland Counties until a
generation or so ago, and were patronized by bass
singers only. The effect of singing through the
trumpet was to give great depth and power to the
voice. The large end rested on the front of the
gallery, while the other was held in the hand. When
drawn out to its full extent (it has one slide, like a
telescope), the trumpet measures 7ft. 6in., and its
mouth is 1 ft. 9in. in diameter. Truly, a fearsome
instrument ! Photo, sent in l>v Mr. Philip E.
Mellard, M.B., Costock Rectory, Loughborough.

AN EARLY PHOTO. OF GENERAL GORDON.

The accompanying photo has a melan¬
choly interest.

It represents
General Gordon
as a Captain
in the Royal
Engineers, and
was taken in
1858or’59. Our
photo, was
taken from a
scrap - book,
which formerly
belonged to the
late Mr, James
Payn. We are
indebted to Mr.

H. Powell, 1,

Swinton Street,

King’s Cross,

W.C., for for¬
warding the
photo,

NOAH’S ARK.

This quaint sculptured stone is now included with
many other fragments, evidently of some church, in
a wall in Appleby, Westmorland. At first one
wonders how the dove—who has unfortunately lost
her head—ever managed to leave the ark either by

used to produce the faces. You will notice that
the mouth of the upper face is even equipped with
teeth. We are indebted for the photo, to Mr. T.
R. Bowling, photographer, of De Pere, Wisconsin.

CURIOSITIES .

237

A PHONOGRAPHIC
POST-CARD.

Addressing communi¬
cations to the post just
for the pleasure of see¬
ing whether the hard-
worked authorities will
be equal to deciphering
them is peihaps not
very considerate, but
the officials are so very
rarely found at fault
that the laugh is almost
always on their side.
This phonographic post¬
card was.delivered at the
house ofMr.E.H. King,
of Belle View House,
Richmond, Surrey, who
sent us the card within
an hour and ' a half
after he had posted it
to himself locally.

A PERAMBULATING TOWER.

The gentleman seen in this excellent little snap-shot
is a Covent Garden porter, and he is carrying the
fourteen bushel baskets seen in our photo, in the
execution of his ordinary duties. The baskets make
a column of some 196m., or 16ft. 4m. Add 5ft. ioin.
as the height of the carrier, and you get a walking

THE DEVIL’S SPOUT.

Some months ago we reproduced a photo, of the
“Puffing Hole” of Kilkee, Ireland. Here we h. ve
a view of a similar phenomenon situated on the coast
of Durham, between South Shields and Marsden.
At certain times of the tide, and during stormy
weather, the water rushes into a cave by an opening
at the sea level. This water, together with an enor¬
mous quantity of imprisoned air, spouts out of a small
hole at the apex of the cavern to an immense height,
and, if the sun happens to be shining, a beautiful
rainbow is formed. Local tradition, of course, assigns
the authorship of this phenomenon to his Satanic
Majesty, the hole being known as the “ Devil’s
Spout.” Photo, sent in by Mr. LI. Eltringham,
Eastgarth, Westoe, S. Shields.

column 22ft. 2in. high. The carrying of these baskets
was not done for a wager. There is room for specu¬
lation as to what would have been the result of the
sudden advent of a runaway horse. Photo, by Mr.
W. B. Northrop, 36, Essex Street, Strand, W.C.

^ ■ u .

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

2.^8

able, and involved
many painful stings.”
Our photo, shows the
combs after prolonged
immersion in water,
together with some
pieces of the books.

THE CATS’
COTTAGE.

The luxurious little
mansion seen in the
accompanying repro¬
duction is built of
bricks cut to about
one - fourth of their
usual size, and the
windows are of glasses
fitted into wooden
frames in the usual
manner. There are
four rooms—each with
plastered walls and
carpeted floor—and a
“ practicable ” stair¬
case leads to the
first and second

A PAPER TELESCOPE.

This is probably the largest paper telescope in
Great Britain. The body of the instrument is
entirely covered with thick brown paper, its
length being 25ft., and the object glass I2in. in
diameter. With this apparatus, the mountains
on the surface of the moon appear with great
clearness. The group represents a family study¬
ing astronomy. The girl standing by the side
of the gentleman looking through the telescope
holds a Nautical Almanac in her hand, and is
aiding the observers with details from its valua¬
ble records. # _

LITERARY WASPS.

Says the Rev. W. B. Thomas, of The Beeches,
Ozmaston, Haverfordwest, who forwarded the
annexed photo. : ‘‘A number of books were put
away in a box in an attic, and forgotten. When
the dog-days came, with their sultry heat, the
windows of the attic were kept wide open, with
the result that a swarm of wasps took possession
of the box and built their combs out of the books,
boring right through many of the stout covers.
The difficulty of rescuing the remains of. the
books, and dislodging the wasps, was consider¬

floors. The house was built
by Stanley Barlow, a son
of the Moravian minister
of Leominster, as a residence
for his two cats, who have
lived in it for more than a
year, making good use of all
the arrangements for their
comfort, and apparently quite
proud of their unique little
domicile. The building is
4ft. 5in. high, and 4ft. broad,
and boasts the name of
“ Tunnicliffe Villa,” the
owner being an enthusiastic
admirer of the Yorkshire
batsman. Photo, sent in
by Mr. A If. Death, of Fern
Cottage, Leominster.

CURIOSITIES.

2 39

Electric Light and Power
Co., of New Jersey. It
was given a push by its
engine about a quarter of
a mile from the incline,
which rises steeply from
the ground to the first floor
of the building seen in our
illustration. Apparently the
push was too hard, for the
truck went a Way at a tre¬
mendous pace, which the
brakesman was powerless
to moderate, sailed up the
incline like a bird, and was
brought to astandstill by the
brick wall, out of which it
“butted”a huge fragment.
Photo, sent in by Mr. W.
H. Wagner, 105, Watchung
Avenue, West Orange, N.J.

MARKINGS ON THE
MUZZLEOFAGUN.

This photo, shows the
muzzle of a 12-inch gun.

REMARKABLE wheat stack.

The stack shown in the accompanying illustra¬
tion has been standing upon a farm at Strad-
broke, in Suffolk, for over twenty-one years, and is
probably the oldest in England. It is the produce
of a field of wheat grown in 1877, when prices
ruled somewhat high, and the owner declared that
he would not sell it for less than 30s. per coomb.
As the market value has never risen to this figure
he has rigorously kept to his word, and the stack
remains unthrashed to this day. Externally, it
presents quite an antique appearance, and a glance
at our illustration will show what havoc the rats
have made; and every few years, when the stack
is re - thatched, the blackened straw contrasts
strangely with its new roof. Photo, sent in by
Mr. E. Bond, The Rookery, Eye, Suffolk.

A RUNAWAY COAL-TRUCK.

The car seen peering out of a breach in the wall
of the building in our photo, was loaded with
twenty tons of coal, and belonged to the Orange

The curious markings
are always to be
observed, to a greater
or less extent, upon
firing any gun ; they
are probably caused
by the escape of the
gases past the “driv¬
ing-band” at the
moment it leaves the
muzzle. The “ driv-
• ing-band ” is the brass
ring on the base of the
projectile, which cuts
its way through the
rifling of the gun,
giving the shot the
necessary rotary move¬
ment. The regularity
of each spurt of gas is
very singular. We are
indebted for the snap¬
shot to an officer in
II.M. Navy.

240

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

usual way. When opened, however, the
yolk was found to be in the form of a cord
45in. long and ^in. wide. It was inegu-
larly coiled up, twisted many times, and
had a knot firmly tied in the middle.
Altogether, it was very much like a long
bootlace of a deep yellow colour. 5 ’ The
original is now in the Museum of the
University of Melbourne.

A CANDIDATE FOR APOPLEXY.

Here is an amusing snap-shot of a boy
hanging head downwards from the roof
of a summer-house. From the expression
of delirious joy on his face, it is evident
that the young gentleman finds it difficult
to maintain his position. We are in¬
debted for the snap-shot to Mrs. R. A.
Hayes, 82, Merrion Square South,
Dublin.

a Photo. by Richards <£ Co., Ballarat.

“THE SPITE HOUSE.”

This odd building stands on the corner of 161st
Street and Melrose Avenue, New York City. It is a
bit over 4ft. in depth, 17ft. frontage, and one and
a-half storeys high, with a basement and sub-basement
built under the broad sidewalk, extending to the curb.
The house itself is of wood, on a steel frame, and has
a slate roof. Its owner is an eccentric tailor, who
lives and carries on his trade below the street. The
interior consists of a small show-room, a store-room,
and spiral iron stairway going down to the “lower
regions.” The upper storey seems to have been con¬
structed merely as a finishing touch. It is reached
by an iron ladder from the store-room. The entire
construction, appointments, and fittings are very
ingenious, and are all the ideas ol the owner.
The story of the house is that the original lot was cut
away in opening the avenue, save only the few feet
now occupied by the building. A controversy arose
between the tailor and the owner of the adjoining
property regarding the disposal of the small strip, and
the tailor becoming enraged because his neighbour
would neither sell his property nor pay the price the
knight of the shears demanded, built this odd structure
out of spite. The photo, was taken just at the com¬
pletion of the building, and before the street had been
fully paved. It shows, however, the dimensions of
the building, and also the construction under the
street, etc. Photo, sent in by Mr. W. R. Yard,
156, Fifth Avenue, New York City.

AN EGG WITH A BOOT¬
LACE YOLK.

We have heard much of
the vagaries of the break¬
fast egg of commerce, but
the egg which contained
the extraordinary yolk seen
in the annexed photo, must
assuredly have been quite
out of the common run.
We will let Dr. James T.
Mitchell, of 15, Raglan
Street, South Ballarat,
Victoria, who sent us the
photo., tell the story.
“ The photo.,” he says,
“ shows the yolk of a
pullet’s egg, which was
boiled for breakfast in the

From

DO NOT HURT HIM, 5 SAID SHE ; ‘ I THINK THAT HIS PUNISHMEN 1
MAY SAFELY BE LEFT TO THE LAW.’”

(See page 252.)

The Strand Magazine.

Vol. xvii.

MARCH, 1899.

No. 99.

Round the Fire.

X.—THE STORY OF B 24.

(As Addressed to Major Merivale, Inspector of Prisons.)
By A. Conan Doyle.

TOLD my story when I was
taken, and no one would listen
to me. Then I told it again
at the trial—the whole thing
absolutely as it happened,
without so much as a word
added. I set it all out truly, so help me
God, all that Lady Mannering said and
did, and then all that I had said and done,
just as it occurred. And what did I get for
it? “The prisoner put forward a rambling
and inconsequential statement, incredible in
its details, and unsupported by any shred of
corroborative evidence.” That was what
one of the London papers said, and others
let it pass as if I had made no defence at all.
And yet, with my own eyes I saw Lord
Mannering murdered, and I am as guiltless
of it as any man upon the jury that
tried me.

Now, sir, you are there to receive the
petitions of prisoners. It all lies with you.
All I ask is that you read it—just read it—
and then that you make an inquiry or two
about the private character of this Lady
Mannering, if she still keeps the name that
she had three years ago, when to my sorrow
and ruin I came to meet her. You could
use a private inquiry agent or a good lawyer,
and you would soon learn enough to show
you that my story is the true one. Think of
the glory it would be to you to have all the
papers saying that there would have been a
shocking miscarriage of justice if it had not
been for your perseverance and intelligence !
That must be your reward, since I am a poor
man and can offer you nothing. But if you
don’t do it, may you never lie easy in your
bed again ! May no night pass that you are
not haunted by the thought of the man who
rots in gaol because you have not done the
duty which you are paid to do ! But you
will do it, sir, I know. Just make one or
two inquiries, and you will soon find which
way the wind blows. Remember, also, that

Vol. xvii.'-31.

the only person who profited by the crime
was herself, since it changed her from an un¬
happy wife to a rich young widow. There’s
the end of the string in your hand, and you
only have to follow it up and see where it
leads to.

Mind you, sir, I make no complaint as far
as the burglary goes. I don’t whine about
what I have deserved, and so far I have had no
more than I have deserved. Burglary it was,
right enough, and my three years have gone
to pay for it. It was shown at the trial that
I had had a hand in the Merton Cross
business, and did a year for that, so my story
had the less attention on that account. A
man with a previous conviction never gets a
really fair trial. I own to the burglary, but
when it comes to the murder which brought
me a lifer—any judge but Sir James might
have given me the gallows—then I tell you
that I had nothing to do with it, and that I
am an innocent man. And now I’ll take
that night, the 13th of September, 1894, and
I’ll give you just exactly what occurred, and
may God’s hand strike me down if I go one
inch over the truth.

I had been at Bristol in the summer look¬
ing for work, and then I had a notion that I
might get something at Portsmouth, for I was
trained as a skilled mechanic, so I came
tramping my way across the south of England,
and doing odd jobs as I went. I was trying
all I knew to keep off the cross, for I had done
a year in Exeter Gaol, and I had had enough
of visiting Queen Victoria. But it’s cruel hard
to get work when once the black mark is
against your name, and it was all I could do
to keep soul and body together. At last, after
ten days of wood-cutting and stone-breaking
on starvation pay, I found myself near Salis¬
bury with a couple of shillings in my pocket,
and my boots and my patience clean wore out.
There’s an ale-house called “ The Willing
Mind,” which stands on the road between
Blandford and Salisbury, and it was there that

244

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

night that I engaged a bed. 1 was sitting alone
in the tap-room just about closing time, when
the innkeeper—Allen his name was—came
beside me and began yarning about the neigh¬
bours. He was a man that liked to talk and
to have someone to listen to his talk, so I sat
there smoking and drinking a mug of ale
which he had stood me; and I took no great
interest in what he said until he began to talk
(as the devil would have it) about the riches
of Mannering Hall.

I said nothing, but I listened, and as luck
would have it he would always come back to
this one subject.

“ He was a miser young, so you can think
what he is now in his age,” said he. “Well,
he’s had some good out of his money.”

“ What good can he have had if he does
not spend it ? ” said I.

“ Well, it bought him the prettiest wife in
England, and that was some good that he
got out of it. She thought she would have

HE BEGAN TO TALK ABOUT THE RICHES OF MANNERING HALL.”

“ Meaning the large house on the right
before I came to the village ? ” said I. “ The
one that stands in its own park ? ”

“ Exactly,” said he—and I am giving all our
talk so that you may know that I am telling
you the truth and hiding nothing. “The
long white house with the pillars,” said he.
“ At the side of the Blandford Road.”

Now I had looked at it as I passed, and it
had crossed my mind, as such thoughts will,
that it was a very easy house to get into with
that great row of ground windows and glass
doors. I had put the thought away from me,
and now here was this landlord bringing it
back with his talk about the riches within.

the spending of it, but she knows the
difference now.”

“ Who was she, then ? ” I asked, just for
the sake of something to say.

“ She was nobody at all until the old Lord
made her his Lady,” said he. “ She came
from up London way, and some said that
she had been on the stage there, but nobody
knew. The old Lord was away for a year,
and when he came home he brought a young
wife back with him, and there she has been
ever since. Stephens, the butler, did tell me
once that she was the light of the house
when fust she came, but what with her
husband’s mean and aggravatin’ ways, and

ROUND THE EIRE.

what with her loneliness—for he hates to see
a visitor within his doors; and what with his
bitter words-—for he has a tongue like a
hornet’s sting, her life all went out of her,
and she became a white, silent creature,
moping about the country lanes. Some say
that she loved another man, and that it was
just the riches of the old Lord which tempted
her to be false to her lover, and that now
she is eating her heart out because she has
* lost the one without being any nearer to the
other, for she might be the poorest woman
in the parish for all the money that she has
the handling of.”

Well, sir, you can imagine that it did not
interest me very much to hear about the
quarrels between a Lord and a Lady. What
did it matter to me if she hated the sound of
his voice, or if he put every indignity upon
her in the hope of breaking her spirit, and
spoke to her as he*would never have dared
to speak to one of his servants ? The land¬
lord told me of these things, and of many
more like them, but they passed out of my
mind, for they were no concern of mine. But
what I did want to hear was the form in
which Lord Mannering kept his riches. Title-
deeds and stock certificates are but paper,
and more danger than profit to the man who
takes them. But metal and stones are worth
a risk. And then, as if he were answering my
very thoughts, the landlord told me of Lord
Mannering’s great collection of gold medals,
that it was the most valuable in the world,
and that it was reckoned that if they were put
into a sack the strongest man in the parish
would not be able to raise them. Then his
wife called him, and he and I went to our
beds.

1 am not arguing to make out a case for
myself, but I beg you, sir, to bear all the
facts in your mind, and to ask yourself
whether a man could be more sorely tempted
than I was. I make bold to say that there
are few who could have held out against it.
There 1 lay on my bed that night, a desperate
man without hope or work, and with my last
shilling in my pocket. I had tried to be
honest, and honest folk had turned their
backs upon me. They taunted me for theft •
and yet they pushed me towards it. I was
caught in the stream and could not get out.
And then it was such a chance : the great
house all lined with windows, the golden
medals which could so easily be melted
down. It was like putting a loaf before a
starving man and expecting him not to eat it.
I fought against it for a time, but it was no use.
At last I sat up on the side of my bed, and I

' 245

swore that that night I should either be a rich
man and able to give up crime for ever, or
that the irons should be on my wrists once
more. Then I slipped on my clothes, and,
having put a shilling on the table—for the
landlord had treated me well, and I did not
wish to cheat him—I passed out through the
window into the garden of the inn.

There was a high wall round this garden,
and I had a job to get over it, but once on
the other side it was all plain sailing. I did
not meet a soul upon the road, and the iron
gate of the avenue was open. No one was
moving at the lodge. The moon was
shining, and I could see the great house
glimmering white through an archway of
.trees. I walked up it for a quarter of a
mile or so, until 1 was at the edge of the
drive, where it ended in a broad, gravelled
space before the main door. There I
stood in the shadow and looked at the
long building, with a full moon shining in
every window and silvering the high stone
front. I crouched there for some time, and
I wondered where I should find the easiest
entrance. The corner window of the side
seemed to be the one which was least over¬
looked, and a screen of ivy hung heavily
over it. My best chance was evidently
there. I worked my way under the trees to
the back of the house, and then crept along
in the black shadow of the building. A dog
barked and rattled his chain, but I stood
waiting until he was quiet, and then I stole
on once more until I came to the window
which I had chosen.

It is astonishing how careless they are in
the country, in places far removed from
large towns, where the thought of burglars
never enters their heads. I call it setting
temptation in a poor man’s way when he
puts his hand, meaning no harm, upon a
door, and finds it swing open before him.
In this case it was not so bad as that, but the
window was merely fastened with the ordinary
catch, which I opened with a push from the
blade of my knife. I pulled up the window
as quickly as possible, and then I thrust the
knife through the slit in the shutter and
prized it open. They were folding shutters,
and I shoved them before me and walked
into the room.

“Good evening, sir! You are very wel¬
come ! ” said a voice.

I’ve had some starts in my life, but never
one to come up to that one. There, in the
opening of the shutters, within reach of my
arm, was standing a woman with a small
coil of wax taper burning in her hand. She

246

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

was tall and straight and slender, with a
beautiful white face that might have been
cut out of clear marble, but her hair and
eyes were as black as night. She was dressed
in some sort of white dressing-gown which
flowed down to her feet, and what with this
robe and what with her face, it seemed as if

with which I had opened the shutter. I was
unshaven and grimed from a week on the
roads. Altogether, there are few people who
would have cared to face me alone at one in
the morning; but this woman, if I had been
her lover meeting her by appointment, could
not have looked upon me with a more wel-

“*don’t be frightened!’ said she.’’

a spirit from above was standing in front of
me. My knees knocked together, and I held
on to the shutter with one hand to give me
support. I should have turned and run
away if I had had the strength, but I could
only just stand and stare at her.

She soon brought me back to myself once
more.

“ Don’t be frightened ! ” said she, and they
were strange words for the mistress of a
house to have to use to a burglar. “ I saw
you out of my bedroom window when you
were hiding under those trees, so I slipped
downstairs, and then I heard you at the
window. I should have opened it for you if
you had waited, but you managed it yourself
just as I came up.”

I still held in my hand the long clasp-knife

coming eye. She laid her hand upon my
sleeve and drew me into the room.

“ What’s the meaning of this, ma’am ?
Don’t get trying any little games upon me,”
said I, in my roughest way—and I can put it
on rough when I like. “ It’ll be the worse
for you if you play me any trick,” I added,
showing her my knife.

“ I will play you no trick,” said she. “ On
the contrary, I am your friend, and I wish to
help you.”

“ Excuse me, ma’am, but I find it hard to
believe that,” said I. “ Why should you
wish to help me?”

“ I have my own reasons,” said she ; and
then suddenly, with those black eyes blazing
out of her white face: “It’s because I hate him,
hate him, hate him ! Now.you understand.”

ROUND THE FIRE.

247

I remembered what the landlord had told
me, and I did understand. I looked at her
Ladyship’s face, and I knew that I could trust
her. She wanted to revenge herself upon
her husband. She wanted to hit him where
it would hurt him most—upon the pocket.
She hated him so that she would even lower
her pride to take such a man as me into her
confidence if she could gain her end by
doing so. I’ve hated some folk in my
time, but I don’t think I ever understood
what hate was until I saw that woman’s
face in the light of the taper.

1 You’ll trust me now?” said she, with
another coaxing touch upon my sleeve.

“ Yes, your Ladyship.”

“You know me, then ? ” '

“ I can gues& who you are.”

“ I daresay my wrongs are the talk of the

“No, your Ladyship.”

“ Shut the shutter behind you. Then no
one can see the light. You are quite safe.
The servants all sleep in the other wing. I
can show you where all the most valuable
things are. You cannot carry them all, so
we must pick the best.”

The room in which I found myself was
long and low, with many rugs and skins
scattered about on a polished wood floor.
Small cases stood here and there, and the
walls were decorated with spears and swords
and paddles, and other things which find
their way into museums. There were some
queer clothes, too, which had been brought
from savage countries, and the lady took
down a large leather sack-bag from among
them.

“This sleeping-sack will do,” said she.

“now come with me."

county. But what does he care for that?
He only cares for one thing in the whole
world, and that you can take from him this
night. Have you a bag ? ”

“ Now come with me, and I will show you
where the medals are.”

It was like a dream to me to think that
this tall, white woman was the lady of the

24 $

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

house, and that she was lending me a hand
to rob her own home. I could have burst
out laughing at the thought of it, and yet
there was something in that pale face of hers
which stopped my laughter and turned me
cold and serious. She swept on in front of
me like a spirit, with the green taper in her
hand, and I walked behind with my sack
until we came to a door at the end of this
museum. It was locked, but the key was in
it, and she led me through.

The room beyond was a small one, hung
all round with curtains .which had pictures
on them. It was the hunting of a deer that
was painted on it, as I remember, and in the
flicker of that light you’d have sworn that
the dogs and the horses were streaming
round the walls. The only other thing in
the room was a row of cases made of walnut,
with brass ornaments. They had glass tops,
and beneath this glass I saw the long lines
of those gold medals, some of them as big as
a plate and half an inch thick, all resting
upon red velvet and glowing and gleaming
in the darkness. My fingers were just
itching to be at them, and I slipped my
knife under the lock of
one of the cases to wrench
it open.

“ Wait a moment,” said
she, laying her hand upon
my arm. “You might do
better than this.”

“I am very well
satisfied, ma’am,” said I,

“ and much obliged to
your Ladyship for kind
assistance.”

“You can do better,”
she repeated. “ Would
not golden sovereigns be
worth more to you than
these things ? ”

“ Why, yes,” said I.

“ That’s best of all.”

“ Well,” said she. “ He
sleeps just above our
head. It is but one short
staircase. There is a tin
box with money enough
to fill this bag under his
bed.”

“ How can I get it with¬
out waking him ? ”

“ What matter if he
does wake ? ” She looked
very hard at me as she
spoke. “You could keep
him from calling out.”

“ No, no, ma’am, I’ll have none of that.”

“ Just as you like,” said she. “ I thought
that you were a stout-hearted sort of man by
your appearance, but I see that I made a
mistake. If you are afraid to run the risk
of one old man, then of course you cannot
have the gold which is under his bed. You
are the best judge of your own business, but
I should think that you would do better at
some other trade.”

“ I’ll not have murder on my conscience.”

“You could overpower him without harm¬
ing him. I never said anything of murder.
The money lies under the bed. But if you
are faint-hearted, it is better that you should
not attempt it.”

She worked upon me so, partly with
her scorn and partly with this money which
she held before my eyes, that I believe I
should have yielded and taken my chances
upstairs, had it not been that I saw her eyes
following the struggle within me in such a
crafty, malignant fashion, that it was evident
she was bent upon making me the tool of
her revenge, and that she would leave me
no choice but to do the old man an injury

“hist. 1 , *she whispered.”

ROUND THE FIRE.

249

or to be captured by him. She felt suddenly
that she was giving herself away, and she
changed her face to a kindly, friendly smile,
but it was too late, for I had had my
warning.

“I will not go upstairs, 55 said I. “ I have
all I want here. 55

She looked her contempt at me, and there
never was a face which could look it plainer.

“Very good.

You can take
these medals. I
should be glad if
you would begin
at this end. I
suppose they will
all be the same
value when they
are melted down,
but these are the
ones which are
the rarest, and,
therefore, the
most precious to
him. It is not
necessary to
break the locks.

If you press that
brass knob you
will find that
there is a secret
spring. So!

Take that small
one first—it is
the very apple
of his eye. 55

She had
opened one of
the cases, and
the beautiful
things all lay ex¬
posed before me.

I had my hand
upon the one
which she had
pointed out,
when suddenly a
change came
over her face,
and she held up
one finger as a

warning. “ Hist! 55 she whispered,
is that ? 55

Far away in the silence of the house we
heard a low, dragging, shuffling sound, and
the distant tread of feet. She closed and
fastened the case in an instant.

“ It’s my husband 1 55 she whispered.
“ All right. Don’t be alarmed. I 5 11

Vol. xvii.—32

arrange it. Here! Quick, behind the
tapestry ! 55

She pushed me behind the painted curtains
upon the wall, my empty leather bag still in
my hand. Then she took her taper and
walked quickly into the room from which we
had come. From where I stood I could see
her through the open door.

“ Is that you, Robert ? 55 she cried.

The light of a
candle shone
through the door
of the museum,
and the shuffling
steps came
nearer and
nearer. Then I
saw a face in the
doorway, a great,
heavy face, all
lines and creases,
with a huge
curving nose and
a pair of gold
glasses fixed
across it. He
had to throw his
head back to see
through the
glasses, and that
great nose thrust
out in front of
him like the
beak of some
sort of fowl. He
was a big man,
very tall and
burly, so that in
his loose dress¬
ing - gown his
figure seemed to
fill up the whole
doorway. He
had a pile of
grey, curling hair
all round his
head, but his
face was clean-
s haven. His
mouth was thin
and small and
prim, hidden away under his long, masterful
nose. He stood there, holding the candle
in front of him, and looking at his wife with
a queer, malicious gleam in his eyes. It only
needed that one look to tell me that he was
as fond of her as she was of him.

“ How’s this ? 55 he asked. “ Some new
tantrum ? What do you mean by wandering

250

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

about the house? Why don’t you go to
bed?”

“ I could not sleep,” she answered. She
spoke languidly and wearily. If she was an
actress once, she had not forgotten her calling.

“ Might I suggest,” said he, in the same
mocking kind of voice, “that a good con¬
science is an excellent aid to sleep ?

“ That cannot be true,” she answered,
“ for you sleep very well.”

“ I have only one thing in my life to be
ashamed of,” said he, and his hair bristled up
with anger until he looked like an old cocka¬
too. “ You know best what that is. It is a
mistake which has brought its own punish¬
ment with it.”

“To me as well as to you. Remember that!”

“ You have very little to whine about. It
was I who stooped and you who rose.”

“ Rose ! ”

“ Yes, rose. I suppose you do not deny
that it is promotion to exchange the music-
hall for Mannering Hall. Fool that I was
ever to take you out of your true sphere ! ”

“ If you think so, why do you not
separate ? ”

“Because private misery is better than
public humiliation. Because it is easier to
suffer for a mistake than to own to it.
Because also I like to keep you in my sight,
and to know that you cannot go back to him.”

“You villain ! You cowardly villain !”

“ Yes, yes, my lady. I know your secret
ambition, but it shall never be while I live,
and if it happens after my death I will at
least take care that you go to him as a
beggar. You and dear Edward will never
have the satisfaction of squandering my
savings, and you may make up your mind to
that, my lady. Why are those shutters and
the window open ? ”

“ I found the night very close.”

“ It is not safe. How do you know that
some tramp may not be outside ? Are you
aware that my collection of medals is worth
more than any similar collection in the
world ? You have left the door open also.
What is there to prevent anyone from rifling
the cases ? ” -

“ I was here.”

“ I know you were. I heard you moving
about in the medal room, and that was why
I came down. What were you doing? '

“ Looking at the medals. What else
should I be doing ? ”

“This curiosity is something new.” He
looked suspiciously at her and moved on
towards the inner room, she walking beside
him.

It was at this moment that I saw some¬
thing which startled me. I had laid my
clasp-knife open upon the top of one of the
cases, and there it lay in full view. She saw
it before he did, and with a woman’s cunning
she held her taper out so that the light of it
came between Lord Mannering’s eyes and
the knife. Then she took it in her left hand
and held it against her gown out of his sight.
He looked about from case to case—I could
have put my hand at one time upon his long
nose—but there was nothing to show that
the medals had been tampered with, and so,
still snarling and grumbling, he shuffled off
into the other room once more.

And now I have to speak of what I heard
rather than of what I saw, but I swear to
you, as I shall stand some day before my
Maker, that what I say is the truth.

When they passed into the outer room 1
saw him lay his candle upon the corner of
one of the tables, and he sat himself down,
but in such a position that he was just out of
my sight. She moved behind him, as I
could " tell from the fact that the light of
her taper threw his long, lumpy shadow
upon the floor in front of him. Then
he began talking about this man whom
he called Edward, and every word
that he said was like a blistering drop of
vitriol. He spoke low, so that I could not
hear it all, but from what I heard I should
guess that she would as soon have been
lashed with a whip. At first she said some
hot words in reply, but then she was silent,
and he went on and on in that cold, 'mocking
voice of his, nagging and insulting and
tormenting, until I wondered that she could
bear to stand there in silence and listen to it.
Then suddenly I heard him say, in a sharp
voice, “ Come from behind me ! Leave go
of my collar ! What ! would you dare to
strike me ? ” There was a sound like a blow,
just a soft sort of thud, and then I heard
him cry out, “My God, it’s blood!” He
shuffled with his feet as if he was .getting up,
and then I heard another blow, and he cried
out, “Oh, you she-devil!” and was quiet,
except for a dripping and splashing upon the
floor.

I ran out from behind my curtain at that,
and rushed into the other room, shaking all
over with the horror of it. The old man had
slipped down in the chair, and his dressing-
gown had rucked up until he looked as if he
had a monstrous hump to his back. His
head, with the gold glasses still fixed on his
nose, was lolling over upon one side, and his
little mouth was open just like a dead fish.

25 1

ROUND THE FIRE .

I could not see where the blood was coming
from, but I could still hear it drumming upon
the floor. She stood behind him with the
candle shining full upon her face. Her lips
were pressed together and her eyes shining,
and a touch of colour had come into each of
her cheeks. It just wanted that to make her
the most beauti¬
ful woman I had
ever seen in my
life.

“You’ve done
it now! ” said I.

“Yes,” said
she, in her quiet
way, “ I’ve done
it now.”

“What are
you going to
do?” I asked.

“They’ll have
you for murder
as sure as fate.”

“Never fear
about me. I
have nothing to
live for, and it
does not matter.

Give me a hand
to set him
straight in the
chair. It is
horrible to see
him like this !”-
I did so,
though it turned
me cold all over
to touch him.

Some of his
blood came on
my hand and
sickened me.

“ Now,” said she, “ you may as well have
the medals as anyone else. Take them and
go.”

“ I don’t want them. I only want to get
away. I was never mixed up with a business
like this before.”

“ Nonsense ! ” said she. “ You came for
the medals, and here they are at your mercy.
Why should you not have them ? There is
no one to prevent you.”

I held the bag still in my hand. She
opened the case, and between us we threw a
hundred or so of the medals into it. They
were all from the one case, but I could not
bring myself to wait for any more. Then I
made for the window, for the very air of this
house seemed to poison me after what I had

seen and heard. As I looked back, I saw
her standing there, tall and graceful, with the
light in her hand, just as I had seen her first.
She waved good-bye, and I waved back, at
her and sprang out into the gravel drive.

I thank God that I can lay my hand upon
my heart and say that I have never done a

murder, but per¬
haps it would be
different if I had
been able to read
that woman’s
mind a n d
thoughts. There
might have been
two bodies in
the room instead
of one if I could
have seen be¬
hind that last
smile of hers.
But I thought of
nothing but of
getting safely
away, and it
never entered
my head how she
might be fixing
the rope round
my neck. I had
not taken five
steps out from
the window skirt¬
ing down the
shadow of the
house in the
way that I had
come, when I
heard a scream
that might
have raised
the parish, and
then another and another.

“ Murder!”she cried. “ Murder ! Murder !
Help ! ” and her voice rang out in the quiet
of the night-time and sounded over the
whole country-side. It went through my head,
that dreadful cry. In an instant lights began
to move and windows to fly up, not only in
the house behind me, but at the lodge and
in the stables in front. Like a frightened
rabbit I bolted down the drive, but I heard
the clang of the gate being shut before I
could reach it. Then I hid my bag of
medals under some dry fagots, and I tried
to get away across the park, but someone
saw me in the moonlight, and presently I
had half-a-dozen of them with dogs upon
my heels, I crouched down among the

252

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

brambles, but those dogs were too many for
me, and I was glad enough when the men
came up and prevented me from being torn
into pieces. They seized me, and dragged
me back to the room from which I had come.

“ Is this the man, your Ladyship ? ” asked
the oldest of them—the same whom I found
out afterwards to be the butler.

She had been bending over the body, with
her handkerchief to her eyes, and now she
turned upon me with the face of a fury. Oh,
what an actress that woman was !

“ Yes, yes, it is the very man,” she cried.
“ Oh, you villain, you cruel villain, to treat
an old man so ! ”

There was a man there who seemed to be
a village constable. He laid his hand upon
my shoulder.

“ What do you say to that ? ” said he.

“ It was she who did it,” I cried, pointing
at the woman, whose eyes never flinched
before mine.

“ Come ! come ! Try another ! ” said the
constable, and one of the men-servants struck
at me with his fist.

“ I tell you that I saw her do it. She
stabbed him twice with a knife. She first
helped me to rob him, and then she murdered
him.”

The footman tried to strike me again, but
she held up her hand.

“ Do not hurt him,” said she. “ I think
that his punishment may safely be left to the
law.”

“I’ll see to that, your Ladyship,” said the
constable. “ Your Ladyship actually saw the
crime committed, did you not? ”

“ Yes, yes, I saw it with my own eyes. It
was horrible. We heard the noise and we
came down. My poor husband was in front.
The man had one of the cases open, and was
filling a black leather bag which he held in
his hand. He rushed past us, and my hus¬
band seized him. There was a struggle, and
he stabbed him twice. There you can see
the blood upon his hands. If I am not
mistaken, his knife is still in Lord Manner-
ing’s body.”

“ Look at the blood upon her hands ! ” I
cried.

“ She has been holding up his Lordship’s
head, you lying rascal,” said the butler.

“And here’s the very sack her Ladyship

spoke of,” said the constable, as a groom
came in with the one which I had dropped
in my flight. “And here are the medals
inside it. That’s good enough for me. We
will keep him safe here to-night, and to¬
morrow the inspector and I can take him
into Salisbury.”

“ Poor creature,” said the woman. “ For
my own part, I forgive him any injury which
he has done me. Who knows what tempta¬
tion may have driven him to crime? His
conscience and the law will give him punish¬
ment enough without any reproach of mine
rendering it more bitter.”

I could not answer—I tell you, sir, I could
not answer, so taken aback was I by the
assurance of the woman. And so, seeming
by my silence to agree to all that she had
said, I was dragged away by the butler and
the constable into the cellar, in which they
locked me for the night.

There, sir, I have told you the whole story
of the events which led up to the murder of
Lord Mannering by his wife upon the
night of September the 14th, in the year
1894. Perhaps you will put my statement
on one side as the constable did at Mannering
Towers, or the judge afterwards at the county
assizes. Or perhaps you will see that there
is the ring of truth in what I say, and you
will follow it up, and so make your name for
ever as a man who does not grudge personal
trouble where justice is to be done. I have
only you to look to, sir, and if you will clear
my name of this false accusation, then I will
worship you as one man never yet worshipped
another. But if you fail me, then I give you
my solemn promise that I will rope myself up,
this day month, to the bar of my window, and
from that time on I will come to plague you
in your dreams if ever yet one man was able
to come back and to haunt another. What
I ask you to do is very simple. Make
inquiries about this woman, watch her, learn
her past history, find out what use she is
making of the money which has come to her,
and whether there is not a man Edward as I
have stated. If from all this you learn any¬
thing which shows you her real character, or
which seems to you to corroborate the story
which I have told you, then I am sure that
I can rely upon your goodness of heart to
come to the rescue of an innocent man.

A Peep into “ Punch!'

By J. Holt Schooling.

[ The Proprietors of “ Punch ” have given special permission to reproduce the accompanying illustrations. This
is the first occasion when a periodical has been enabled to present a selection from Mr. Punch’s famous pages .]

Part III.—

N picking out these pictures
from Punch one is guided by
the common wish to get other
people to share a pleasure,
rather than by an acutely
critical examination of the
pages of Punch.

It is pleasant to say, as one turns over the

leaves of this absolutely unique periodical—
“ Look at this, isn’t it good ? And there’s a
fine bit by Leech. Here’s a strong cartoon
by Tenniel—what d’ye think of that? This
is funny—and look at the clever drawing of
this one—isn’t Punch fine ? And don’t you
wish you had a complete set ? ”

Of course, the difficulty is to decide what to
show, for although one gets into
these pages as many of the Punch
pictures as possible, one can show
here only about three pictures,
on the average, out of each of
the half-yearly volumes of Punch ,
and thus there is considerable
hesitation in the final choice,
which is made after a process of
weeding-out which runs through
four or five stages of decreasing
bulk, the first stage of selection
including ten or twelve times as
many pictures as are finally
chosen.

However, the final choice from
Mr. Punch’s rich store has to be
made, and in making it with the
full consciousness of committing

1855 TO 1859.

sins of omission, I can only hope to do justice
to Mr. Punch and to please my readers who, in
my fancy, are turning over his pages with me.

By the way, the present Part of this article
is remarkable for containing two cartoons
which are perhaps the masterpieces of John
Leech and of Sir John Tenniel—I refer to
Nos. 3 and 20, of which more anon.

Glancing at Leech’s sketch in No. 1, we
come to his picture No. 2, which brings home
to us the horrible mismanagement of the
War Office during the Crimean War, which
left our soldiers to endure the Russian
winter without proper clothing or food—a
scandal that Mr. Punch handled severely
in other pictures than that now shown.

In connection with this graphic picture by
Leech it is interesting to refer to Mr. Justin
McCarthy’s “ History of Our Own Times,”
where under the heading “ A Black Winter ”
the historian narrates some of the almost
incredible blunders that make this picture
No. 2 stand out even now as a vivid bit of
truth and in no way as an exaggeration

The winter [1854-1855] was gloomy at home as
well as abroach The news constantly arriving from
the Crimea told only of devastation caused by foes
far more formidable than the Russians—sickness, bad

weather, bad management.On shore the

sufferings of the Army were unspeakable. The tents

were torn from their pegs and blown away.

The hospitals for the sick and wounded at Scutari
were in a wretchedly disorganized condition. ... In
some instances medical stores were left to decay at
Varna, or were found lying useless in the holds of
vessels in Balaklava Bay, which were needed for the

wounded at Scutari.Great consignments of

boots arrived, and were found to be all for the left

" Well, Jack! 11 eke's coon sews rnosi IIohe. We'be to bate a Medal."

“ That's vert kind. Maybe one or these days we’ll have a Coat to stick it os?"

2.—A REMINISCENCE OF THE COMMISSARIAT SCANDAL DURING THE CRIMEAN-
WAR *, BY LEECH. 1855.

254

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“GENERAL FEVRIER” TURNER TRAITOR.

"Ross Li has Two Generals n» whom she can cokeide—Generals J anvil*. and FfevRiER."— M * late Enptror of kuuia .

3. --ONE OF LEECH S MOST FAMOUS CARTOONS. 1855. (SEE TEXT FOR DESCRIPTION.)

foot. Mules for the conveyance of stores were con¬
tracted for and delivered, but delivered so that they
came into the hands of the Russians and not of us.
Shameful frauds were perpetrated in the instance of
some of the contracts for preserved meat. “ One
man’s preserved meat,” exclaimed Punch , with bitter
humour, “ is another man’s poison.” ....

Happily, we have learned the lesson from
the miseries of our soldiers here illustrated
by John Leech ; and in Lord Kitchener’s
recent Nile campaign, home and foreign
expert opinion is that the very difficult
problems of supply, transport, and railway
construction were as well thought out and
administered as was the actual fighting part
of that brilliantly successful piece of long¬
headed calculation, which, after three years’
working out, culminated in the Omdurman
victory of September 2, 1898.

The cartoon in No. 3 is a splendid con¬
ception—it is probably Leech’s masterpiece
among his political pictures. The Emperor
Nicholas I. of Russia, whom the united
public opinion of Europe regarded as the

author of the Crimean War,
boasted, in a speech delivered
shortly before his death, that
“ Russia has two generals
upon whom she can always
rely — General Janvier and
General Fevrier.” This
cynical boast of Nicholas
alluded to the severity of the
Russian climate during the
months of January and Feb¬
ruary, upon which the Russian
Emperor relied to greatly re¬
duce by death the forces allied
against him in the Crimea.

On March 2, 1855, Nicholas
died of pulmonary apoplexy,
after an attack of influenza—
his “ General Fevrier ” had
turned traitor. Leech’s genius
seized the chance, and on
March 10, 1855, Punch pub¬
lished the picture now shown
in No. 3.

General February [Death in
a Russian General’s uniform]
places his deadly hand on the
Emperor’s breast, and the icy
cold of the Russian winter—
the Emperor’s trusted ally—
kills the very man who lately
had uttered the boast just
quoted.

The splendid genius of
Leech was doubtless quick¬
ened by Leech’s own feelings at
that time, for we in this country were enraged
to know of the unnecessary sufferings of our
troops during the Crimean winter ; and Leech
surpassed himself when he drew this powerful
and dignified picture—one of the most famous
cartoons that Punch has ever published.

4. —AN EARLY CARICATURE OF MR. GLADSTONE. 1855.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH .”

2 5S

Picture No. 4 shows Mr. Gladstone as a
fractious infant being lulled by Mr. Punch
with the refrain, “ Kertch-e-Kertch-e.” This
refers to the capture of the seaport town
Kertch in the Crimea by the allied forces, an
event that was thought to be not welcome to
the advocates of Peace, amongst whom was
Mr. Gladstone, and who was averse to con¬
tinuing the war with Russia for the purpose
of “prostrating the adverse party.” But
as the “adverse party” was Russia, against
whom feeling ran strongly, the public was not
in the mood to agree with the Peace party,
and so Mr. Gladstone incurred the popular
displeasure which had already been meted
out to John Bright, to Cobden, and to the
other members of what was then regarded as
the “ Peace-at-any-price,” or “ pro-Russian,”

Old Lady. " OK, ah / yes, it 's the Waite. I tore to lit ten to 'em. It may be fancy, but somehow
they don’t seem to play to sweetly at they did when J was a girl Perhaps it it that I'm getting old,
and don. 't hear quite to well at I used to do."

6.— A ROMANCE OF 1856.

party. This No. 4 was published June 16,
1855; i n September of that year we took
Sebastopol, and the Crimean peninsula was
not evacuated by the British and French
troops until July 12, 1856.

The same number of Punch which contains
No. 4 also contains the following humorous
“ Russian Account of the Lord Mayor,” and
relates to the siege of Sebastopol, which had
then (June, 1855) lasted eight months:—

HAVING A PAIR ON!

Skater. “Hi!—Dot.uo 1—What ARE too aooot f—I t'* ooieo into mt Foot!"

Skate Proprietor. " Never hind, Sir!—Better ‘at 'em on Firm'"

7. —IN FEBRUARY, 1857.

(From the “ Invalide Russe.")

The visit of the Lord Mayor of London to the Hotel de Ville
confirms the report alluded to by Lord Campbell at the Mansion
House dinner, that as a last resource England would put forth
all her energies against the brave defenders of Sebastopol, by
sending the Lord Mayor of her Metropolis in person to take
the command of her troops in the Crimea. But holy Russia,
in the confidence of faith, anticipates her triumph over this
tremendous adversary. Our readers may desire to obtain some
authentic information respecting the powerful opponent
with whom our valiant army will have to contend. The
Lord Mayor is the greatest man in the City of London,
being of colossal stature, and proportional bulk, insomuch
that his weight amounts to many pood. He is, indeed, a giant
of such enormous dimensions that more than 250 tureens (large
soup dishes) of leal turtle arc required for the Lord Mayor’s
dinner. He is the chief of fifteen other monsters called
Aldermen, and a head taller than any of them. His drinking
vessel is termed the Loving Cup ; when filled with spiced wine
it takes two or three hundred ordinary Englishmen to drink up
its contents. He wears a huge chain, by which he drags his
captives, and besides a sword, which is as much as one man,
that one being a man of his own order, can carry ; he is armed
with a huge mace by which he is able to level a multitude at a
blow. The mere sight of this terrible weapon suffices to
maintain order among the London mob.

Besides the fifteen Aldermen, there are also two other Giants
under the command of the Lord Mayor, nearly as big as him¬
self : they are called Gog and Magog, or the City Giants, and
they will accompany their leader to the Crimea. Strong, how¬
ever, in the orthodox faith, our soldiers will hurl back the
impious defiance of this boastful Giant, and many a hero in
their ranks will be found ready to go forth to meet him in single
combat, nothing doubtful of gaining the victory over him, and
laying his head at the feet of our august Emperor.

2 5 6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

PHYSICIANS IN MUSLIN.

Contemporary slates that
English lady has just completed
her medical studies at Paris,
and obtained a diploma to prac¬
tise as a physician; so that
she has note become Db-Emilt.
The surname of the lady is im¬
material, and, moreover, it may
he hoped, will speedily be ex»
changed for another; since it
to be cherished in sickness is
a importsnt object in mar-
•riage, a wife who in her own
person combines the physician
with tbe nurse must be a ti
sure indeed. The difficulty.....
to say impossibility, of getting
the ordinary nurs’o to act in
concert with the rational and
honest physician is too well
known to all who hare experi¬
enced the blessings of a nur¬
sery, and hare tver paid any
attention to its affairs as well
as paying its expenses. A con¬
sort, unitirgthe two characters
in her single and at tbe same
time her married person, would
insure reasonable eonduct and
expenditure to match, in that department of the household. She would also maintain, without
Dsrrr or Mas. Johnson, comparative quiet in that same region whence although it rs mostly
situated at the top of the house, continually proceed the very same kind of noises with
those described hy the jpoet as first saluting the ears of the Trojan bero upon tbe threshold of
another and a lower place.

A medical wife, moreover, would not need, on her own account, that enormous amount of
cherishing in sickness which some ladies require, and which, though in itself a duty which is
also a pleasure to gentlemen of independent property, is yet romewhat of an embarrassment

for men whose duty it is to attend, at tbe same
time, to the business whereby they have to sup¬
port themselves and their families. She would
save her husband all the cost of those continual
doctors who beset the house of that man who bat
an ignorant hypochondriacal w.fe, continually in
want, not of medicine, but of medical consolation
and condolence.

— be enabled to dispense with mnch of that
travelling and change of scere, which, whilst
they are gratifyingto tbe inclinations of so many,
arc suitable to the circumstances of so few. She,
although iu a station of some gentility, would
msnago to exist without those sumptnom in¬
dulgences, for the want of which it is wonderful
that almost all women of the working classes do
not perish.

Tnc above considerations cause ns to rrjoice in
the embellishment of the Fncul y by the lair sex.
Dr. Emilt has a sister, Dr. Eu’zABFTn, who
preceded her in walking tbe Parisian hospi'a's,
and who is now practising at New York. May
we venture to hope that they will prove orra-
ments to the fee-male sex ? We shall be' clad
to see tbe gold-handled parasol extern ively
sported in Old England too; and trust that a
elansc will be introduced into Mr. Hbaplak*s
Medical Bill, providing every facility for British
ladies desirous of following the praiseworthy
example which has been act them by theae two
daughter! of jEbCulnpina.

Tint hast wind !

Last week, when the east wind was at its
sharpest, a nursery maid, walking with her charge
in the Regent’s Park, had a remarkably fine baby

9. —THE LADY-DOCTOR OF 1856.

Punch has many references to the Crimean
War, which are specially interesting if one
clears up the points which lapse of time may
have rendered indistinct, by the aid of a
good history.

Pictures 5, 6, 7, and 8 are all good, and
they bring us to No. 9 — “ Physicians in
Muslin”—which is one of the many things
one finds in Punch that anticipated
by many years recognised social
items of the present day. In this
No. 9, with its rather appalling pic¬
ture of a lady-doctor of the year
1856, we read an account of the
English lady who “ has just com¬
pleted her medical studies in Paris,
and obtained a diploma to practise
as a physician.” Mr. Punch evi¬
dently approved the development of
female activity about which he here
discourses—see his concluding para¬
graph. This concluding paragraph
is followed by a joke entitled “ The
East Wind ! ” which has no connec¬
tion with the account of the “ Physi¬
cians in Muslin,” but which is
included here as an amusing speci¬
men of the quips and cranks that fill
up the odd corners of Mr. Punch’s
pages.

We have been accustomed for so
long a while to the well-known por¬
traits of the present Duke of Cam¬
bridge, who in 1895 resigned the
office of Commander-in-Chief to
Lord Wolseley, that we do not recog¬
nise the bluff old Duke in the much
younger general who, in picture No.

10, is seen in the act of jumping
over the Prince Consort into the
Plorse Guards, there to take up the

post of Commander-in-
Chief, which, in the year
1856, was resigned by
Prince Albert to the Duke
of Cambridge—then aged
thirty-seven.

Mr. Punch’s comment
on this change is contained
in the following lines, which
accompany the cartoon in
No. 10 :—

GOOD NEWS FOR THE
ARMY.

Gallant Cambridge becoming Com¬
mander-in-Chief,

To the mind of the soldier how great
a relief!

For the Duke is expected no nonsense
to stand,

And let nobody over his shoulders
command.

The defenders of Britain a strong hope express

That no tricks will, henceforward, he played with their dress.

Yes, the heroes who, save in advance, never run,

Trust no more to be rigged out like figures of fun.

[Here come details of absurdities in the uniforms of soldiers,
and the concluding verse is as follows.—J.H.S.]

A more soldierly taste will on uniforms tell,

The connection is close of the taste with the smell.

Now the perfume of powder to Cambridge is known :

He’ll thank those who don’t know it to let him alone.

Pu?ich at that time was and previously had

THE NEW COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF. _

IO.—RECORDING THE APPOINTMENT OF THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE AS
COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF IN PLACE OP THE PRINCE CONSORT. BY LEECH, 1856.

A PEEP INTO 11 PUNCH.

257

II.—A PET DOG. 1856.

been calling attention to the necessity for
military reform, and in the issue for May 19,
1855, there is a cartoon entitled “Military

Reform — A Noble Beginning. H.R.H.
P. A. Resigning his Field-Marshal’s Baton
and Pay.”

The verses accompanying this cartoon
are: —

PRINCE ALBERT'S EXAMPLE.

A cankenvorm was gnawing at the heart of England’s Oak,

And palsy threatened its great arms that braved the thunder¬
stroke ;

Its glorious crown was fading, and our foes began to hoot,

“ Behold the Oak is rotting and the axe is at its root.”

Aristocratic vermin did offices infest,

Not the Best men, but such men as lackeys call the Best,

Men with the very richest kind of fluid in their veins,

But men whose little heads inclosed exceedingly poor brains.

Etc., etc., etc.

“ That cry,” said he [Prince Albert.—J. H. S.] “ is just; it is a
shame and a disgrace

That any but a proper man should be in any place ;

An end must to this wrong be put ; there is no doubt of that ;
Someone the movement must begin—myself shall bell the cat.”

[ Here are four verses describing how Prince Albert publicly
resigned his Field-Marshal’s Baton and Pay, as not being
entitled to them.—J. H. S. ]

The concluding verse being :—

Then every Lord incapable, and every booby Duke,

Accepted at their Prince’s hands a lesson and rebuke ;

They cast away their offices ; their places up they threw,

And England’s Oak revived again and England throve anew.

Punch has never hesitated to use plain
speech, and as Punch is essentially an ex-
presser of public opinion as well as a leader
of it, plain words are the best sort of words
for Mr. Punch to use, being, as he is, a
powerful mouthpiece of an essentially
plain-speaking nation.

There is a funny little sketch in
No. 11, and in No. 12 we have a very

THE STATE BUTLER

Gets up Another Bottle of Fine Old Smoke.

T 2 . —LORD PALMERSTON, PRIME MINISTER IN 1857.

Vol. xvii.— 33 .

ALWAYS BE POLITE WHEN TRAVELLING.

Affable young Ocnt' (who is never distant to strangers). "Would too like to see
Hell's Life, Sir? There's an out-and-out Stunning Mill between Conket Jim
and The Porkt One !’’

13. — IJY LEECH. 1856.

good cartoon showing Lord Palmer¬
ston, who was Prime Minister in 1857,
as The State Butler taking out
“Another Bottle of Fine Old Smoke”

258

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

[Advzrtijzxeht.]

DO YOU WISH TO AVOID BEING STB ANGLED!!

Ip so, try onr Patent Antigarotte Collar, which enable* Gentlemen to
walk the streets of London in perfect safety at all hour* of the day or
night.

THESE UNIQUE ARTICLES OF DBESS
Are made to measure, of the hardest steel, and are warranted to
withstand the grip of

THE MOST MUSCULAR RUFFIAN IN THE METROPOLIS,
Who would get black in the face himself before he could make the
slightest impression upon his intended, victim. They are highly polished,
and

Elegantly Studded with the Sharpest Spikes,

Thus combining a most recherche appearance with perfect protection
from the murderous attacks which occur every day in the most fre¬
quented thoroughfares. Price Is. 6 d, or six for 40r.

WHITE, CHOKEB, AND Co,

14. —A REMINISCENCE OF THE LONDON GARROTERS OF 1856.

labelled “Queen’s Speech” from the special
bin containing Royal Speeches.

Notice that Palmerston has in his mouth
[at the right corner] the straw that was so
often seen in the Punch portraits of him.

This insertion of a straw in Lord Palmer¬
ston’s mouth is one of Punch's fancy touches,

DIGNITY AND IMPUDENCE.

Hector. “Now. them, Youno Feller—\ .20 are too btarino at!"
Hodge. “Whot shouldn't I stare at ter? I rers ron nr*/''

15. —THE HORSE GUARDS, 1857.

of which the Gladstone collar, the exag¬
gerated lankiness of Mr. Balfour, the
elephantine bulk of Sir William Harcourt,
etc., are other and more familiar examples to
us of the present day. Mr. Spielmann refers
to this Palmerston-straw in his “ History of
Punch” and writes

Palmerston, of course, never did chew straws ; but
one was adopted as a symbol to show his cool and
sportive nature. Many a time has that straw formed
the topic of serious discussion by serious writers. . . .
However, it is certain that the sprig of straw, which
really referred only to his pure devotion to the Turf,
from 1815 onwards, was first used in 1851 . . . and,
as a matter of fact, added not a little to Palmerston’s
popularity, as not only representing the Turf, but a
Sam Weller-like calmness, alertness, and good-
humour.

No. 13 is by Leech, and in No. 14 we
have a reminder of the garroting-terror of

SCENE.-OMNIBUS, DRAWN BY QUADRUPEDS WITH
PROMINENT RIBS.

Oent. “Oh, ah!—And what do you Fef.d the Horses on?”
Driver. “ Butter-Tubs—D on't Ykr bee the 'Oops ?" _

16.— THE OLD STYLE OF OMNIBUS HORSE, 1857.

the London streets in the year 1856. These
garrote - robberies, to which Punch made
several references with a view to their sup¬
pression, were silently committed in the

17. —A LADY-SMOKER OF 1857. BY LEECH.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

2 S9

TJJTDEB TEE MISTLETOE.

Min OuiMngtm . "Ob, don't tob lire Cubistmab time, Mb. Bnown, and all
its dear Old Ccstons 1 '• (Bnowa dtm’l tttm la tee il .)

l 8 .—BY LEECH. 1858 .

London streets by compressing the
victim’s windpipe until he became
insensible. The crime was usually
done at night by three men : the
forestall , or man who walked before
the intended victim ; the back-stall,
who walked behind the victim ; and
the actual operator, who was called
the nasty-man. The part of the two
“stalls” was to conceal the crime,
give alarm of danger, carry off the
booty, and facilitate the escape of
the nasty-man.

Mr. Punch invented the collar

seen in No. 14, to prevent the grip of the nasty-man
taking effect upon the windpipe of his victim.

Glancing at Nos. 15 and 16, we see in No. 17 a girl
of the period [a.d. 1857] astonishing her old-gentleman
fellow-passenger by pulling out her cigar-case in the
railway compartment. Then, ladies preferred cigars,
but now, as a rule, they smoke cigarettes.

J ■»»»3 M $ " Now then. Gnu, jest ltt be—"

’Oirlliaterrtpluf, before He icord "pass'' can drape Ike Up, of lie/air Pedeilna,). "On! It ain't no cs« too* trtino a turn.
Ml”. lmiil 1.SN I AliOVE H'KIM TO T AK1: IN Him SlMMONS."_ _

19 .—A STREET INCIDENT OF 1857 .

Nos. 18 and 19 bring us to TenniePs masterpiece —
No. 20. This splendid drawing was published as a
double-page cartoon in Punch on August 22, 1857 ;
it was suggested to John Tenniel by Shirley Brooks,
one of Mr. Punch’s great stars, who, in 1870, succeeded
Mark Lemon as Editor.

This picture is one of the famous “ Cawnpore Car¬
toons,” in which Tenniel expressed the feelings of
horror and of revenge which all England experienced

•jo,—UNI:', OK SIK JOHN TBNNIBL’s MASTF.HKIF.CKS IHJKINO TUB INDIAN MUTINV. 1857.

THE BRITISH LIONS VENGEANCE ON THE BENGAL TIGER.

260

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

at the news of the treacherous brutalities of
the Sepoy mutineers. TheCawnpore massacre
of women and children by the order of in-

'• DID YER WANT A GOOD WAMIIKT DA WO, SIR’"

22.—HEAVEN FOR&ID ! 1858.

famous Nana Sahib had occurred in the June
of 1857, and when Punch published this
picture, we had just sent off thirty thousand
British troops from home to India, Lucknow

had not then been relieved by Have¬
lock and Outram, nor had Delhi been
re-taken by'our men.

Even now, more than forty years
since Tenniel drew this avenging lion
leaping on the snarling tiger, this pic¬
ture stirs the blood, and the more
when we recall that Nana Sahib was
actually asked to go into Cawnpore
with his guns and men to help old Sir
Hugh Wheeler against the mutineers.
Sir Hugh was in command of the
garrison, and he was seventy-five
years old when he asked for help
from the treacherous Dandhu Panth
— the Nana Sahib of the most in¬
famous page of the world’s history.

The next picture, No. 21, was pub¬
lished September 12, 1857, and it
tells us something of what our men
did to avenge Cawnpore. The country
was furious for revenge, and our troops
took it to the full after they had
looked down the well by the trees in
the garden at Cawnpore, and had seen
that long pit choked up with massa¬
cred Englishwomen and children.

A soldier who was there, and who
had seen things [there is no name
for the things he saw], once told me
that they would pile up a heap of
Sepoys dead or wounded, pour oil over them,
and then set fire to the pile—our troops were
simply mad with the lust of revenge, and no
power on earth could have held them back,
and one could not blame them after hearing,

FIELD MARSHAL PUNCH PRESENTS A “LITTLE SOUVENIR" TO
COLONEL H.R.H. THE PRINCE OF WALES. _

'J3.—the PRINCE OF WALES AS COLONEL, AT AGE SEVENTEEN,
1858.

4 PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

261

And terrified India shall tell to all time

How Englishmen paid her for murder ana lust;
And stained not their fame with one spot of the crime
That brought the rich splendour of Delhi to dust.

Punch had no patience with that
party at home who urged mercy, and
who feared that, in avenging Cawn-
pore and the other horrors of the
Mutiny, we should go too far and
disgrace our name by treating the
enemy’s women as they had treated
ours. Notice in the picture, No. 21,
that Tenniel has been careful to
show the Indian women grouped
behind Justice, mourning, but un¬
harmed by our men as these march
annihilating the treacherous muti¬
neers, with Justice leading them on.

as I did at first hand, of the nameless things
that were done to our kinsfolk in India.

The verses in Punch facing the picture in
No. 21 show very plainly what the feeling
was in this country, even among men who
had not seen the sights that our troops in
India saw :—

Who pules about mercy? The agonized wail
Of babies hewn piecemeal yet sickens the air,

And echoes still shudder that caught on the gale,

The mother’s—the maiden’s wild scream of despair.

Who pules about mercy ? That word may be said
When steel, red and sated, perforce must retire,

And, for every soft hair of each dearly-loved head,

A cord has dispatched a foul fiend to hell-fire.

The Avengers are marching—fierce eyes in a glow :

Too vengeful for curses are lips locked like those —

But hearts hold two prayers—to come up with the foe,

And to hear the proud blast that gives signal to close.

Etc., etc., etc.

26. —BY LEECH. 1859.

THE “SILENT HIGHWAY’-MAN.

_ “ Your MONEY or your LIFE ! "

25. —ILLUSTRATING THE UNSANITARY CONDITION OF THE RIVER THAMES BEFORE THE
EMBANKMENTS WERE BUILT. 1858.

However, let us follow
our Mentor, Punch , and
pass from grave to gay by
looking now at the funny
sketch in No. 22.

No. 23 shows Field-
Marshal Punch presenting
the “ Life of Wellington ”
to the Prince of Wales,
who at age seventeen
became a Colonel in the
British Army. This was
published November 20,
i 8 58 .

Earlier in the same
Volume, No. XXXV. of
Mr. Punch’s long row of
115 Volumes, there is on
page 53 another curious
example of Pmictis way of
forecasting things or events
which later become actuali¬
ties. For the mention of
this example I am indebted

262

TIIE STRAND MAGAZINE.

27.— BY LEECH. 1859.

to Mr. Spiel-
mann, and it is
interesting as
anticipating the
Missing - Word
Competitions of
a few years ago
which were then
so popular. Here
is the piece from
Punch , published
August 7,185 8:—

Bird - Fanciers
and Beard-
Fanciers.

Omitting the first
word, we print the
following advertise¬
ment verbatim from
the Times :—

To Short-Faced Beard-Fanciers.—The owner of a
good stud of blue and silver beards, feeling anxious
to improve the breed, is open to Show a Silver
Beard Hen against all England for a match of two
guineas.—Address, Mr. William Squire, Chymist,

28.— BY LEECH. 1858.

The preceding statement
was published, as I have
said, in 1858, and thirty-
four years later, in 1892,
the idea here set out by
Mr. Punch attained its full
development in the great
Missing-Word Competitions
of that year.

No. 24 shows to us
Punch's old friend, Mr.
Briggs, engaged in a very
unsuccessful attempt to
initiate some horse-taming
experiments, which just
then, in 1858, were attract¬
ing public notice.

No. 25 is a rather grue¬
some picture of the state
of the River Thames before
the Embankments were
built and when the river
was a common
muck - receiver,
and was thus a
danger to life.
Punch with his
usual sagacity
advocated the
spending of the
necessary money
to remedy such
a bad state of
things, and here
we see the posi-
t i o n pithily
summed up in
the words:
“ Your money or
your life.”

No. 26 is funny.

11 an well, W.

We have not any wish to be thought a sporting
character, nor to have our office mistaken for a
betting-office ; but we are open to a wager, with any
lady reader, that she will not in six guesses name the
word we have omitted ;•....

Speculation on the points which we above have
mooted might, of course, have been prevented by
insertion of the word we have omitted ; and we
might create a spurious excitement by announcing
that the word would be “given in our next.” . . . .
We will therefore keep our readers no longer in sus¬
pense, and without beguiling them to pay another
threepence by withholding what is now within oui-
power to print, we will state that the word
“ Pigeons ” headed the advertisement.

29.—AN INCIDENT OF AN AUTHOR’S L|FE. 1859.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

26I

The extraordinary cartoon in No.
27 is a very clever thing by Leech.
It represents Napoleon III. as a
porcupine, bristling with French
bayonets in place of quills, and the
cartoon refers to the contradiction
between Napoleon’s words
“ L’Empire c’est la paix ” [The
Empire is Peace], and the fact that
simultaneously with the expression
of this peaceful sentiment, a large
increase was being made in the
military armament of France. This
military growth in France naturally
attracted our attention, and Leech
drew this very clever cartoon, which
is additionally interesting as a tour
de force by Leech, for he proposed
the idea and drew the picture in two
hours, time being very scant that
week in March, 1859, owing to an
exceptional postponement of the
usual Wednesday Punch- dinner, at
which the forthcoming cartoon is
chosen.

Passing Nos. 28, 29, and 30, we
come to the cartoon in No. 31,
which was published March 5, 1859,
just forty years ago. But we have

THE QUEEN IN HER STORE-ROOM.

to ILuutt (to MR FtiTitTUL Smtant). " I DON’T KNOW WHAT MAY HAPPEN, MR. BULL, BUT • KEEP OUR
_ rOWDER DRY.’ ” _

“ You're no rati to be of card, of my Dawg, Marm, if you toill but krsp yourn off of \m /”

30. —a rough’s sarcasm of 1859.

the same Queen who is here seen in
her Store-Room, and that Queen has the
same Faithful Servant to whom she says
to-day, as she said forty years ago, “ I don’t
know what may happen, Mr. Bull, but
‘Keep our Powder Dry.’” And Mr. Bull,
of Her Majesty’s [War] Store Room, may be
trusted to obey his Queen’s order, although
he heartily wishes that he may not have to
unpack his stores. for many a year to come.

31. —FORTY YEARS AGO. PUBLISHED MARCH 5, 1859.

He has not had to do so, as regards any of
his Continental neighbours, since that day of
March, 1859, when Punch published this
picture we are now looking at—and may
another forty years be added to those forty
which have gone without dimming the sense
of this picture, before Mr. Bull has to weigh out
his “ dry powder” upon a large pair of scales.

No. 32 shows to us the bucolic apprecia-

At a Tunneii civr.N by my Loud Bhoadacres to some of ms Tenants, Ci-nA^OA is handed
in a uqi:i ur-cuass to Old Tuiiniitops, who. swallowing it with much kklisb, bays—
“ Oi ZAY, Young Man ' Oi ’ll tak zum o'that in a Moou 1 ”

-BY LEECH. 1859.

264

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

tion of curagoa by
Lord Broadacres’
farmer - tenant,
who wants “ zum
o’ that in a Moog.”

Leech’s picture
in No. 33 intro¬
duces the Duke
of Edinburgh for
the first time, I
believe, into the
pages of Punch.

This cartoon was
published May
14, 1859, when it
was proposed to
increase our Navy,
and the young
Prince Alfred was
then entered on
the books of the
Euryalus. The
Duke was at that
time fifteen years
of age, and Leech
has, for some
reason not known
to me, represented
him as quite a
small boy of five
or six years old.

The very funny
picture, No. 34, which comes next, is pro¬
bably a representation by Leech of his own
sufferings from noise of all sorts. Leech
had an absolute
horror of street
and other noises,
and Mr. F. G.

Kitton has re¬
corded, in his
B iograp hical
Sketch of John
Leech, that when

the artist’s friends
made light of his
extreme suscepti¬
bility to noise and
tried to jest with
him on the sub¬
ject, Leech would
say, “You may
laugh, but I assure
you it will kill
me.” And there
is no doubt but
that Leech’s early
death was to no
small degree
brought about by
the continual dis¬
turbance from
street noises to
w h i c h he w a s
subjected while
at work—an evil
that nowadays is
even worse than
in Leech’s time
when in 1859 he
drew this very
funny “ Portrait of
One of the Village
Cochins” that was
disturbing the
unfortunate man
who had gone into the country to have a
quiet night.

I have compared a good portrait of
Leech with the
distracted face
of the man in
bed, and it
seems to me
that Leech has
here drawn a
portrait of him¬
self.

ADMIRAL PURCa. rR—RCI ALFRED OF TOR EORTaU*

MEN FOR THE FLEET!

Admiral Pl-rcb. "THERE, BOVS’ THERE'S AN EXAMPLE FOR YOU."

33.—THE DUKE OF EDINBURGH ON ENTERING THE NAVY. BY LEECH, 1859.

Jones, wuo can't sleki will in Lonoon during the Hot W Batumi, goes to ua\e a Quiet Night in a Village'!

Portrait c/ Qsr. r>f th P tllarr Cor ha>fr.

34.—BY LEECH. 1859.

(To be continued.)

“Biggest on Record."

By George Dollar.

OL. TAPLEY, who lives in
Spencerberg, Missouri, has the
longest beard on record. It
measures ioft. Sin. in length,
and reaches to the ground,
where it lies extended in
a snake - like curl. The owner of this
remarkable hirsute
curiosity is a wealthy
farmer and prominent
citizen of Missouri,
born in 1831. Thirty-
live years ago he let
his beard begin to
grow, and as he comes
of a long-lived family
and enjoys splendid
health, the beard
promises to reach a
length of 20ft. In fact,
when the photo, shown
herewith was taken on
August 31st, 1896, the
beard was but 9ft. 2in.
in length.

Where does Mr.

Tapley keep his beard ?

Inside his shirt bosom,
of course, but carefully
rolled up in a silk bag,
from which he extracts
it when surrounded by
admire rs. He dresses
it with the best of oils,
and combs it with a
specially-made wooden
comb. It is related
that on a certain occa¬
sion, in Chicago, Mr.

Tapley took his beard
out to show to some
small boys on the
street, when he was im¬
mediately surrounded
by a throng that
blocked the traffic and necessitated the
police.

A dime museum proprietor now offered
Mr. Tapley an enormous salary to enter his
exhibit as a star attraction, but the long-
bearded man was> too good a citizen and too

Vol ivij.- 34-

wel 1-to-do to accept such an offer, and his
life is now spent in quiet at Spencerberg.

Regarding the genuineness of the beard,
we ourselves possess excellent proof, but
on this point Mr. Tapley himself writes :
“ 'There would be no use in trying to palm
off anything that was not genuine here, as
I am known by almost
every man, woman, and
child in the neighbour¬
hood, and as I am
now living within one
mile of the place where
I was born.”

It is the intention
of this short series of
articles thus to illus¬
trate some of the more
remarkable oddities in
the world, which may
fairly claim the title
under which we write.
We shall spurn nothing
which is well known,
provided it is bigger
than something else of
the same kind. We
shall, in short, have
a little of everything,
and the variety of
stuff will probably
amaze our readers as
much as it amazed us
when we first began to
handle the material.

< Let us then jump
at once from whiskers
to primroses. We have
at the top of the next
page an illustration of
a curious bunch con¬
taining over seventy
primroses all on one
stem, which, according
to Mr. Thomas W.
Collins, of Bugbrooke, grew on an ordinary
single red primrose in the garden of Miss
frost of that place. Until we hear of some¬
thing larger than this beautiful bunch of
lavish blooms we shall make bold to class it
amongst the largest things yet known.

266

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

of the comparative sizes of a man and
a Jersey cabbage. The man does not
eat the cabbage. It is, in simple
language of the primers, eaten by
animals ; and although it has nothing
to do with the subject, we might add'
that these cabbages cannot be made to
grow at Guernsey.

In dealing with these vegetable record
growths we must not forget that soil and
climate have much to do with the sub¬
ject. Therefore it would not be unusual

From a] the largest bunch of primroses. [Photograph'

Nearly everyone who goes to Jersey brings
home a walking-stick made of the dried
stalks'of Jersey cabbages; and those who
live far away from Jersey, and have never
been to it, will take it with a grain of salt
that cabbages do grow up in the air. But
here is a picture for proof. Some of the
vegetables grow to the amazing height of
ioft., and the figure in the foreground of
our illustration gives an approximate idea

From a] the tallest cabbages. [ Photograph .

From a] the tallest sunflower. [ Photograph .

to find sunflowers growing in the Canary
Islands to a height of ioft. or 12ft. The
sunflower shown in the illustration above,
sent by Miss J. de Forssmann, of Arguijon,
Puerto Cruz, Teneriffe, Canary Isles, was
but four months old when cut down in
the middle of August last, and measured
12ft. 7in. in height. When photographed
it had one hundred and twenty - three
single flowers, with brown centres, all in

“BIGGEST ON RECORD V

267

bloom. Two feet from the ground the stem
measured 6in. in circumference. No cause
is known for its abnormal growth, as it was
self-sown, like many others.

On this page we have the biggest lily and
the biggest thistle yet photographed. The
first of these, photographed by E. L. Jackson,
of Oakbank, St. Helena, grew at Oakbank.

From a] the tallest st. John’s lily. [Photograph.

Unfortunately, it was not .possible to photo¬
graph it where it grew, as it was blocked by
a hedge of jasmine and camellia. It was
taken out and tied to a banana
tree, by which change the
height of this beautiful plant
is more easily to be seen. It
stood over 8ft. above ground,
the usual height of these St.

John’s lilies being from
to 3 ft.

About this size, also, is the
ordinary thistle. But here is
one 5 ft. in height, which, on
account of its unusual growth,
was secured by the Ipswich
Scientific Society, and presented
to the Ipswich Museum. It was

FromaPhoto.bg ] the tallest thistle. [If ml Vick, Ipswich.

photographed by Mr. William Vick, of London
Road, Ipswich, and consists of a number of
stems all from one root, fasciated in one
stem 7 in. broad and about iin. thick. It
had twenty-two flower heads, and, as Mr.
Vick writes, “a head somewhat like the
common cockscomb of our gardens.” It is
on account of the absence of any standard of
measurement in the photo, that we are par¬
ticular in this case, as in others, to give the
exact measurements.

He who has sent in the next photograph,
Mr. William P. Skelton, of The Lakes Hera/d ,

From a Photo. by\ the biggest shoe. [Frank Robinson, Bovmess.

268

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Windermere, says: “It
is not on record whether
Wordsworth in his boy¬
hood at ancient Hawks-
head ever made this clog
the subject of a sonnet
—it is worth it ! ” We
might disagree with this
verdict, but not with
the probability that the
famous clog of Hawks-
head is the biggest shoe
on record. It is now
on view at an old-
fashioned hostelry, “ The
Brown Cow,” and used
to be worn by a mole-
catcher named John
Waterson, of Outgate,
near Windermere Lake.
Waterson lived to a
great age, and had a
most remarkable foot.
The clog measures 2oin.
in length, over 8in. wide
at the bottom, i6in. from
welt to welt across the
the back, from tab to

THE LARGEST BOV.

From u Photo, by John Gooderham tC Son, Ipswich.

of the heel 7111.
any living man
would be able
to get his foot
into such an
inclosure, but
suppos i t i o n s
cannot always
be trusted. It
was not before
Mr. Waterson
had cut the boot
down in front,
and inserted
lace holes to
make it wider,
that he was able
to put his foot
in it.

Ipswich, by
the way, con¬
tains not only
the biggest
thistle, but the
biggest boy on
record—at least,
the biggest boy
for his years. He
is the son of
Mr. Arthur Part¬
ridge, a farni-

One

front, 2 2in. around
tab, and the length
would suppose that

THE LARGEST BUNCH OK BEARS.
From a, Photo, by J. Dunn, Hemcl Hempstead.

bailiff, of Washbrook,
and his measurements
were lately taken by
about twenty doctors,
who examined him in
the Ipswich Hospital.
Master Partridge is over
six years and eight
months of age, and his
net weight at the age
of six and a half years
was 9st. 31b. (1291b.).
He measures 3ft. ioin.
around the chest, 42m.
round the body, around
the calf of leg 17m., and
round the thigh 27m.
To a certain extent he
might be considered
abnormal, but he is both
healthy and intelligent,
and has rarely needed
the services of a doctor.

The enormous bunch
of pears shown in the
accompanying illustra¬
tion was grown at Gaddesden Place, Herts,
by T. F. Halsey, Esq., M.P. There were over
a hundred pears on the bunch, which was

photographed
after a few of
the pears had
dropped off.
Hundreds who
saw this on exhi¬
bition were of
the opinion that
it was the largest
bunch ever
grown. But as
we have no
statistics from
California and
other fruit-grow¬
ing countries on
which to base
an opinion, we
dare only to say
that it is the
biggest bunch
on record in
England.

The everyday
farmer will be
astonished at the
largest single¬
furrow plough in
the world, which
we illustrate

“BIGGEST ON RECORD .

269

From a]

f Photograph.

herewith, and will wonder what the giant was
ever created for. According to Mr. W. R.
Mason, of Bakersfield, Kern Co., California,
who sent in the photograph, the plough cuts
a furrow 4ft. wide, and was originally built for
the purpose of making irrigation canals. It
was, however, found to be too unwieldy for the
purpose, as it took eighty teams of oxen to
draw it. Those
who are curious
to see this Cali¬
fornian folly will
find it in the
possession of the
Kern County
Land Company.

It certainly de¬
serves a place in
our lively cate¬
gory of immen¬
sities.

We now ap¬
proach a more
“ meaty ” subject
Nature’s bo¬
vine noblemen,
or the finest yoke
of mammoth-
matched oxen in
the world. We
are indebted for
the photograph
to Mrs. E. N.

Holt, of Orlando,

Florida. The
oxen are owned

by a resident of Buckland, Mass., who
with just pride has exhibited them at
numerous agricultural shows and state fairs
in the United States and Canada, and the
manner in which these Titans have walked
off with first prizes is wonderful indeed.
They are like elephants in size, their
actual weight at the age of eight years

being 7,3001b.,
17 hands high,
10ft. in girth,
15 ft. in length,
and 15 ft. 11 in.
from tip to tip.
They are un¬
equalled for size,
quality, mating,
and beauty. They
have a record for
hauling on the
ground on a drag
a dead weight of
n,o6ilb. Had
this mammoth
pair been put in
front of the Kern
County plough,
it is not unlikely
that the irrigation
canals would
have been cut
and the largest
plough in the
world saved from
destruction and
decay.

From aj

THE LARGEST TEAM OK OXEN.

[Photograph,

By Basil Marnan.

DARE not risk it, Mrs.
Orme ! The river is running
strong now. Those five
poor beasts would be no¬
where in mid-stream.”

And Reuben Jessop
pointed with his long whip to the out-
spanned bullocks that stood knee-deep in
the rising waters of the Molopa River.
Sorry beasts they were, and scraggy indeed,
with no tails, with but patches of hair on their
hard, polished hides, their mouths dripping,
their eyes red and fierce. For “ lung-sick ”
had reduced the transport rider’s team of
sixteen to the five doomed remnant now before
him. His face was gloomy enough in the
strong glare of the mid-day sun as he looked
over the river and scanned the surrounding
country, with ever and again a furtive glance
at the woman at his side. Mile after mile
the veld swept on, a rolling, billowy sea of
freshening grass; up above a sky utterly
cloudless, pitiless in its strenuous burning
light pthe river rolling on placidly enough as
yet at their feet, yet with a suspicious tinge
as of mud in its blue waters, and a faint sing¬
ing hum in the laughter of its ripples—a hum
that, to the traced ear of Reuben, spoke of
wild torrents racing, foaming, bubbling down

the hollows and creeks and hill-sides, turbir
lent with the flood and menace of the first
rains of the season.

In the tent of his waggon was a wounded
trooper on the way to Mafeking, and the
woman by his side was a nurse who had
volunteered for the front, only to be sent
back with the first victim of Galiswe’s rebel¬
lion. The escort had left them two days
back. And now they were in the angle of
the slight spur that borders the Transvaal
State, the angle that Bechuanaland makes
with the River Molopa, whose head waters
rise in the kloofs and kopjes that surround
the little township of Zeemst. And that
river they had to cross.

There is something infinitely mournful in
the aspect of a waggon outspanned by a
river in the midst of a great stretch of veld.
The battered, travel-stained tarpaulin of the
tent, the dirt-choked wheels, the bit of
sacking or the frayed edge of a tattered gar¬
ment that marks the driver’s seat, the pole
lying inert on the ground, the weary, listless
look of the tired beasts—everything seems
to accentuate the insignificance of man and
the illimitable character of his surroundings.

And as they stood now taking in the
scene, Reuben Jessop looked and felt
very anxious.

THE TRANSPORT RIDER.

271

“ Is it so very necessary to cross at once?”
Mrs. Orme asked him. She was a pretty
little woman, whose sad face and grey hair
contrasted strangely with her youthful appear¬
ance.

“ Absolutely necessary,” said Reuben. “It’s
this way, Mrs. Orme. Any one of these
smooth-looking billowy crests we have been
crossing may conceal an impi who have
struck our spoor. The last three days’ rain
has flooded the up-waters. Watch the river
and see the signs of driftwood in it—twigs,
grasses, and things of that kind. By dawn
to-morrow it will be a banker with twenty
feet of water in mid-stream, and we shall be
landed here for a month perhaps, which
won’t give poor Corporal Borman much
chance.”

“But how can you get any more cattle?”
asked the nurse, anxiously.

“ How, indeed ! ” echoed Jessop. “ There’s
not a kraal within twenty miles inhabited.
The men are away to the Great Place with
Jantje. The women are up in the kloofs
with such beasts as the rinderpest has
spared.”

But the Boers ? Could you not ride
into the Transvaal? There used to be a
farm near here. I remember the spot so
well.”

“You! Mrs. Orme!” exclaimed Reuben.
“ I had no notion you had been here before.”

“It was here that in flying from the
Boers in the war before ’84 I lost my hus¬
band and daughter. Oh, you can’t think
how I hate and dread these African drifts,
Mr. Jessop; Our waggon overturned, and
my darlings were swept away in that great,
rushing, yellow flood.” Ruth Orme’s pale
face grew even paler at the memory. “ My
husband was discovered later with his head
all laid open, but my little daughter Ruth
was never found.”

“ Ruth ! ” repeated Jessop, a sudden gleam
lighting up his eyes. “ How old would your
daughter be now if she had lived?” he in¬
quired. “ Twenty ? Ah ! ” and he began
loading his pipe meditatively.

At that juncture the wounded man de¬
manded Mrs. Orme’s attention, and she did
not notice the strange expression which had
come into the transport rider’s rugged face.
He was of the type that has made South
Africa. A big, clean-limbed, broad-shouldered
Yorkshireman he was, hard and tireless and
undaunted as his native scars, with a face
tanned to a dusky red, and set round with a
beard and hair of that mellow gold one sees
on the harvest wains as the reapers chant

the sun’s requiem. The long, tawny locks
gave an almost leonine look to the face in
spite of its leanness and length. But with
all his grimness and size, and lithe, steel-like
swing of limb and body that seemed to
indicate a character stark and dour, the eyes
of the man betrayed a treasure store of
tenderness somewhere in his nature. And
now as he looked over the river their limpid,
soft brown was glowing with a light very
tender indeed as he murmured to himself,
with a swift look after the retreating figure of
the nurse:—

“ By Jove ! How curious it would be ! I
had no idea she was Fred Orme’s widow.
Why, I used to fag for him at Giggleswick.
And little Ruth ! Twenty years, eh ? And
I always felt dead certain she never came of
that Boer stock. She has given me £ no ’
twice; but now I’ll look in there again, and
on pretence of getting cattle see if she has
changed her mind, and try and pump Oom
Bothe as to her parentage.

“ Bring me the horse, Sammy,” he called
out to the Fingo leader, the one boy he
always took with him as driver or leader of
the team. He walked over to the waggon,
which was standing at the entrance of the
gap leading down to the drift or ford. On
one side the plain rolled away westwards
following the bend of the river, on the other the
bank rose up some thirty or forty feet. He
had driven his waggon well under this bank,
and as near to the water as possible in order
to provide as efficient defence as was practi¬
cable against any attack. Nor were his
precautions ill-advised, for as Sammy
appeared with the horse, a party of some
twenty Bechuanas came into sight on the
top of one of the ridges, to drop down
instantly into the grass, and vanish from
sight. With a muttered curse Reuben took
down the three Lee-Metfords and loaded
the magazines.

“Are you a good shot?” he asked Mrs.
Orme.

“ Yes,” she said, simply, as she took the
carbine from him. Frontier women are
rarely fussy.

“ Hand a gun up here,” came in a weak
voice from the tent. “ I’ve just got a nigger’s
head in lovely target. I can fire all right
lying down. Don’t you trouble, nurse. I
sha’n’t move more than if our friend’s
bullocks were tossing me between the back
rails.”

It had been the work of a moment to
secure the horse in front of the waggon, so
that he was covered from the rebels. Sammy

272

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“a party of some twenty bechuanas came into sight.”

was armed with an old Snider. With it he
had once hit an ant-heap at about a hundred
yards, and had contemplated the devasta¬
tion with a joy and pride nothing had ever
since eradicated. No persuasion would have
induced him to exchange a weapon which
could make a wound about 2ft. across for
one whose bullet only made a hole like a
dart. So Sammy hugged his Snider, lying
under the waggon, with his black eyes glisten¬
ing and his teeth showing—for all the world,
a human spaniel on the watch.

The attack was not long in coming. A
rustle in the grass, the upleaping of a score of
black forms, a wild yell, the clash of assegai
blades, the whirr of their flight, and the little
band of rebels dashed across the eighty yards
that separated them from the booty that
seemed so easy of conquest.

“ Hold your fire, boys,” said Reuben.
“Lie down, Mrs. Orme, behind the awning.
I’ll give you the word. Don’t hurry yourself.
Sammy, you silly devil, take your gun from
between my legs. Now ! Let ’em have it! ”

The savages were within forty yards before
Reuben gave the word. Sammy had for¬
gotten to take his trigger off half-cock, and in
a curiously pidgin English was trying to
blaspheme. But from the Lee-Metfords the
deadly hail of lead poured forth with startling
precision. At the first three reports, three
Bechuanas rolled over biting at the grass.
But that was to be expected, and the rest

hame on. But guns that fire for ever ! Wov !
As shot after shot pinged into the ochred
bodies with that little deadly sizzle as the
bullet bit the flesh, the rebels paused, broke,
and then incontinently fled, leaving seven of
their number dead.

“ Excellent, Mrs. Orme ! ” exclaimed
Reuben. “ You were cool as a cucumber.”

“ I hope I didn’t hit any of the poor
things,” was the answer. “ But do you see
they have driven off the cattle ? ”

“ Yes ! ” Reuben replied. “ And it means
that now I must ride in to Bothe’s, and see
if they will lend or sell me a team. But
those brutes would think it a joke to leave
some English people to be chewed up by
the Kaffirs. However, I must do my best.
It’s an hour’s ride in, nearly. I reckon I
shall be back in about two hours.”

And as he swung himself on his horse,
Reuben turned to Mrs. Orme and said :—

“ Keep a sharp look-out for natives,
though they won’t attack now till nightfall,
if then. And, Mrs. Orme, I hope to have
some news for you when I return.”

And with a wave of his hand he dug his
heels into his horse and dashed off over the
veld.

II.

Bothe’s Farm near Langeberg was en fete .
Few farmers beyond the Vaal had a goodlier
yard of cattle and a fatter store of grain than
had Oom Bothe. His cattle “ ran ” for

THE TRANSPORT RIDER.

273

miles around, and it was only lately that he
had built a new brick residence destined for
his son and his son’s intended bride. This
last was none other than the girl Ruth, the
invocation of whose name had stirred Reuben
Jessop to such a glow of tenderness. Known
all round as Ruth Bothe, it was, nevertheless,
common knowledge that Ruth was no child
of the old farmer, though he claimed her for

tiny little dimple that looked like a laugh of a
Cupid bubbling through a rose leaf, and with
eyes, large, dark, flashing, tender, soft, and
pleading, showing a hundred fleeting moods
in every hour—Ruth was indeed at once the
tyrant and dispute of that part of the
Transvaal.

Of all her suitors, Oom Bothe’s son, Carl,
she loathed perhaps most. Carl acted as

“ THREE BECHUANAS ROLLED OVER.”

niece, having brought her in one day during
the war thirteen years before. Among the
callow and somewhat camel-faced maidens of
the Transvaal Ruth shone as a star amid
turnips. Not' that she was particularly
beautiful. She wasn’t. But she was alive,
with a vivid, electrifying, communicative
vitality which made all those around her feel
in her presence as though the sunshine were
chasing the wind over the laughter of blue
waters. Neither tall nor short, with a figure
whose full, round curves were yet perfectly
harmonious with the lithe, lissom swing of
youth, she was just a healthy, well-developed,
womanly girl of nearly twenty summers, with
very little nonsense in her head, and a fresh,
maidenly heart beneath a breast ever prone
to beat in sympathy with the cause of the
oppressed. With dark, wavy hair and olive
complexion, a rather pert nose and chin, a
mouth generous, mischievous, by turns wistful
and wooing, and turning up at the corners, and
hovering in the most distracting way over a
Vol. xvii.— 35 .

field cornet to his district, and looked upon
himself as the angel the Lord had designed
for the protection and patronage of President
Kruger. He was a long, thin, weedy young
man, whom excessive dissipation in Johannes¬
burg bars and among the kraals of the
natives had reduced to a state of dilapidated
dandy-dom. His father looked on him as a
model of wisdom and intelligence, and in
private had long decided to bestow on him the
hand of Ruth. That Ruth should dream of
resisting never occurred to the Boer. He looked
on her as a pet slave. He had picked her up
a wet, unconscious child on the banks of the
Molopa thirteen years ago- a waif, a pauper.
Who was she to question his disposition of
her, and to his son, too? He had noticed
with no little suspicion and resentment the
attentions of the roinek Jessop. He was not
half satisfied at the casual way they appeared
to have met and chatted at the banks of
the drift, and did not see the necessity
of the Englishman’s confounded impudence

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

274

in subsequently escorting Ruth home. And
though in courtesy bound to offer him
coffee, he always cursed the sight of him.
It was four years since Reuben had first met
the girl, and three since he first proposed
to her. But Ruth had always laughed at him
and sent him away, yet never without such
a lingering flash of tenderness as served to
fan the fires of his hope till the next trip
brought him to her again. And now the old
Boer had put his house en fete , having that
day asked his friends to come over and
witness the betrothal of his son to Ruth.

Ruth had spent the morning since receiv¬
ing the intimation partly in crying over
the long silence of a big Yorkshireman, the
remembrance of whose eyes somehow made
her blush, making her feel curious, curling
little thrills in her toes, and partly in savagely
wondering how she could acquaint O0111
Bothe with the fatuity of his hopes.

It was, therefore, a very radiant face that
welcomed the entry of Reuben Jessop as,

c'ethering his steaming horse at the gate, he
strode in among the guests. Some ten or
twelve were there, standing round the big
fire in the great hall that served as general
room. A dead silence greeted Reuben’s
request for cattle and assistance.

“ I’m quite willing to buy the cattle, if
you won’t lend them,” he added, a hot flush
mounting his face.

“ The ro'inek asks for cattle, father! ”
sneered Carl Bothe, who stood a few feet off
Reuben, surveying him insultingly.

A chorus of grunts rose up.

“ The ro'inek asks for cattle ! He ! He ! ”
cackled the women-folk, and again a chorus
of grunts.

“ Oom Bothe,” said Reuben, “ I have an
English lady and a wounded man in my
waggon. The river is rising, the natives
have already attacked us, and will return for
certain in force to-night. If you do not let
me have beasts, we shall be murdered.”

“ He ! He ! He ! ” cackled the women.

“ The roineks will be murdered.”

“ I have no cattle to lend the roineks,” said
the old man, puffing stolidly at his pipe.

“ And the nearest place is Krugersdorp,”
added his son, with a sneer. “ Dead cattle,”
he added, with a grin. “ And if there are not
enough there, you will
find more at Majuba.”

Reuben gave him
a look and turned
towards the door,
where Ruth, with a
pale face, was stand¬
ing. Brandy, exulta¬
tion, innate cruelty,
and conceit combined
to form in Carl Bothe’s
mind a sudden im¬
pulse to evince his
prowess and contempt
of England before his
guests at the expense
of the roinek. And
as Reuben turned he
lifted his sjambok and
flicked him lightly on
the back. The snigger
that went round the
room, the fatuous smile
on his own loose lips,
was suddenly frozen,
however. For Reuben
swung round, a light
like glowing steel in
his sombre eyes.
“ You ! ” he gasped
between his clenched teeth. A couple of
swift, strides and then, before the weedy,
emasculated youth could still his paling,
quivering lips, Reuben had seized him by
his throat and belt, lifted him high in the
air, swung him round, and hurled him clean

“A RADIANT FACE WELCOMED THE ENTRY OF REUBEN JESSOP.”

THE TRANSPORT RIDER .

-75

across the hall iiito the great hearth, where
he fell, scattering right and left the blazing
logs.

As he made for his horse he felt Ruth’s
hand slip under his arm, and stopped to see
her face turn anxiously
to him, a new light in
her eyes that made his
pulses beat high.

“ Quick ! Go ! ” she
said. “ They will shoot
you. At any cost, go !

You shall have the

and that of a Sardinian bandit, Carl him¬
self was being ministered to by his mother
and aunts, who were picking off his burnt
clothes and discussing his blisters, in that

style of discursive

IlE FEl.L SCATTERING RIGHT AND LEFT THE BLAZING LOGS.

cattle, if I bring them myself. Yes,
before midnight. Go. No! ” she cried,
breaking loose from him, as he attempted
to convey more closely the warmth of his
gratitude. “ Not yet! ” she added, demurely,
as he sprang into his saddle, and dashed off
just as Bothe and his guests came running
out, their rifles in hand. As Reuben lay on
the neck of his horse, the last he saw of
Ruth before dipping into the hollow was
her figure with extended arms standing
before the gate of the kraal, where Bothe
kept his horses tethered.

And, indeed, he was gone none too soon.
Bothe and his friends were furious. The
old man with his pipe in his mouth, his
grey beard twitching, his red, rheumy eyes
blinking at the sweltering glare of the veld,
his right hand, hairy and horny, gripping at
his rifle, his old slouch hat slightly cocked
over his ear, mingled in a manner irresistibly
ludicrous the aspect o r a primitive Puritan

retreat disturbed her.

and comprehensive
comment on the
maternal relations
of his enemy which
the Boer lady
shares with the
pious Hindu.

Having averted
both the immediate
danger of pursuit
of her lover and
betrothal of herself,
Ruth withdrew into
a lodge overlooking
the cattle kraal, to
enjoy the vent of
her laughter and
happiness. She
cordially hated
Carl, regarding him
as a cruel libertine
and spiteful bully,
and she had all a
woman’s capacity
for glorying in a
deed of strength
her soul confirmed
as righteous. She
was therefore enjoy¬
ing herself very
much when the
sound of voices ap-
proaching her
As the door opened,

she glided through the open French window
and stood one moment on the veranda,
thinking. Her face had grown suddenly
pale. For in the intruders she had recog¬
nised one of Galiswe’s indunas with Oom
Bothe; and such a companionship foreboded
mischief to the man she was beginning to
feel she could not live without loving.

For more than an hour the two haggled
and bargained, ravelling as Kaffirs and Boers
love to ravel the thread of each argu¬
ment. But when they finally departed, and
Ruth saw the chief gliding away over the
plain westwards, the fulness of the plot was
only too startlingly plain.

For thus had the Boer arranged with the
Kaffir for the destruction of the Englishman.
That night Oom Bothe would send a team
of cattle to Jessop on the pretence of helping
him. As soon as the team were inspanned,
they should overturn the waggon by driving

276

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

it up the bank; the Bechuanas should then
run in and spear the Englishmen, and share
the booty with Oom Bothe. It was so
simple and so natural, and so very easy; and
if any questions were asked at Pretoria!
Bah ! When Oom Paul fiddled, did not the
English lion dance?

“‘The best-laid plans of mice and men
gang aft agley,’ ” murmured Ruth, quoting
her lover’s frequent remark on her own per¬
verse refusal of him, as creeping quietly down
to the native kraal, a few hundred yards
beyond the farm, she held a long conversation
with a Fingo girl whose jolly countenance, after
undergoing every contortion of amazement
and incredulity, settled into a bubbling, over¬
flowing grin of suppressed appreciation as
of an excellent, if unmentionable, joke.
Presently the same girl might have been seen
to enter the Boer’s house and proceed to
Ruth’s room, when, to judge by the sound of

seasoned, perfectly trained animals, whose
pull was like the persuasion of a traction
engine. With such bullocks in his kraal
the old man could really enjoy seeing some
neighbourly waggon stuck in the mud. One
by one the team were gathered together and
inspanned silently and with no word spoken.
One of the natives took the leading rope,
the other stood by the kraal gate till the
team were led out, after which she waited
patiently till the team had noiselessly vanished
beyond the nearest dip, when she quietly
drove all the other beasts out of the kraal in
the opposite direction, repeated the same
operation with the horses ; then, breaking into
the long lob trot at which natives can travel
so far, soon rejoined her companion.

The team needed little persuasion to travel
fast. The girl who had remained behind
took the leading rope, and the oxen followed
her, running with a lumbering, swinging gait

“the oxen followed her with a lumbering, swinging gait.

muffled merriment, the joke, whatever it was,
was being further elaborated.

III.

About two hours previous to the time agreed
upon by Bothe to send out the cattle to
Reuben’s undoing, there might have been
seen in the great stone kraal two natives
going in and out among a mob of cattle
and picking out a peculiar lot of sturdy black
beasts, with white faces and beautiful curved
horns. These were the joy of Bothe’s heart
—draught bullocks such as no other man
had in all Africa. Twenty strong, well-

strangely similar to her own. The veld was
very silent and deserted. Not even a dog
disturbed the night silence. The field
cornet being safely in bed with his blisters,
no one would trouble to be patrolling.
Soon in the distance the glisten of the
river could be seen, and twice a native
rose in the path to vanish again, silent,
spectral, at the magic whisper “ roi'nek.” The
faint thud of the team’s hoofs beat a rhythmic
measure on the turf, that seemed to one of
the two accompanying them to swing into a
strange lilt of a Yorkshire name. The stars

THE TRAD SPORT RIDER.

2 77

blinked quietly down, ridge after ridge of
billowy grass glided back into the night;
hollow after hollow echoed softly to the
muffled peal of hoofs ; the black bodies of
the oxen swung like waving shadows in the
warm night air; their white faces, the
glistening vapour of their panting breath,
seemed like the weird pulsing of some great
uncouth machine. There was such a silence
about it all, and yet such an alluring sense of
lilt in it, the whole scene was as a dream one
might weave by moonlight over the noiseless
heave of the ocean. The two girls, enveloped
in their brown blankets, their hair in cork¬
screw wisps, their feet and legs bare to the
knee, their blankets just covering their breasts,
leaving the chests and arms bare; beneath
the starlight even they, too, seemed like
phantoms.

At last, before them loomed the dim
shadow of the waggon. Again there rose up
from the veld two shadowy figures, assegais
and shields in hand, only to sink as if swal¬
lowed into the
earth, before
the magic of
the whispered
word, “roi-
nek.” As they
were within a
few yards of
the waggon,
the voice of
Reuben rang
out bidding
them halt.

“ Come down,

O Koos, and
hear a mes¬
sage,” said the
native girl,
speaking in
the Kaffir
tongue. The
other girl
looking round
saw the gleam of two assegais in the grass. The
sense of danger destroyed the sense of shame.

“ Stay where you are, Reuben,” she whispered,
in English. “ There is an ambush all round
you. Tell Sammy to hook the cattle in and
gallop the drift. There is a plot to let the
cattle overturn the waggon. I overheard it,
and we are two hours before the time. But
the river is very high—we must be quick.
Get the rifles ready.”

“You darling!” said Reuben. “Stand
by to come on board. Are you ready,
Sammy? Jump in, now—quick—Yek!

Yek, there ! Oop lads ! Yek ! ” And as
the girls scrambled in over the tail-board the
long whip lashed round, circling the heads,
finding the tender spots of each beast. With
a jolt and a bound the waggon swung down
into the drift, and before the natives could
realize what had happened, was well in mid¬
stream. That they were none too soon was
evident; it was all the team could do
to keep their legs, and the water swirled
up in angry, humming eddies on to the
very tail-board of the waggon. Mrs. Orme
shivered as she looked at it, and Reuben,
thinking of the freight of l'ove he bore, plied
his whip with a crackle and swish that
assuredly astonished the prize team of Oom
Bothe. The centre once passed, however,
the danger was over. A spur of beach,
running out into mid-stream, made the
approach to the bank on the other side calm
and easy. But they had still the natives to
reckon with, and so Reuben urged the strain¬
ing beasts up the steep incline at a gallop,

till the waggon was safe from all possibility
of flood. Along the stream on this side the
banks were steep, and pursuit was only
possible by the road in which they were.
From where they had halted some forty feet
above the river, where the level plain dipped
into the cutting leading into the drift, the
back of the waggon commanded the whole
of the gap to the water’s edge. A volley
plashed into the water brought home this
fact to the Bechuanas on the other side.
These, indeed, were quite nonplussed. The
new development was altogether beyond their

STRAINING BEASTS Ul‘ THE STEE1' INCLINE."

278

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

instructions, and in their doubt they decided
to watch and send off a runner to their
induna, who by that time should be with
Oom Bothe.

But the delay meant the loss of two hours,
and when the old Boer and the Bechuanas
rode up to the drift, midnight had gone by,
and the river was moaning now, a surging,
yellow torrent no horse could stem nor man
stand in. The old Boer stood in his stirrups
shaking his rifle, gesticulating and yelling
across the noisy waters. His cattle and his
son’s promised bride! The pride of his
kraal and his home ! And he had spent all
the night in scouring the country for them,
and almost cut a Kaffir boy in pieces with his
sjambok for letting the cattle escape. In his
madness and fury he urged his horse at the
flood, beating it on the head with his rifle
and tearing its flanks with his savage spurs.
But his fury was vain. Like Balaam’s ass
his steed feared the sword of that flood-song
in front of him, and goaded at last by his
master’s brutal senselessness, turned and
bolted back to Langeberg. By dawn there
was half a mile of water between the banks,
and the river, thirty feet in depth now, was
whirling down branches and veld drift, a
foaming, racing, exul¬
tant torrent, impass¬
able for weeks.

“ Bothe’s oxen will
take us to Mafeking
within a week,” said
Reuben, as early the
next morning he stood
talking to Ruth and
Mrs. Orme. They
two, with arms twined
round each other,
formed a pretty pic¬
ture of glad peace.

For the strange, mys¬
terious voice of
Nature had drawn
mother and child into
a swift embrace at
the first glance. The
disguise of a Kaffir
dress, of a little stain¬
ing and red-ochreing,
of a blanket which
only revealed a
figure distract-
ingly sweet—they
could not con¬
ceal the voice, the
eyes; could not
alter the lips

that had nestled against the mother’s breast.
And in the hungry, yearning silence of that
embrace, when Mrs. Orme drew the girl into
her arms, in the wonderful glow that flushed
the weary eyes and sad, worn face of the
Red Cross nurse, Ruth felt all her heart go
out to this woman whose tremulous, pas¬
sionate whisper bade her call her “Mother.”

And memories once evoked soon grew
and multiplied, and Ruth recalled many
childish recollections at her mother’s sug¬
gestion. Doubt was impossible. And, in¬
deed, the two looked strangely alike in their
nurse’s dress. For Ruth had hastily dis¬
carded her native attire and stood now in
one of her mother’s gowns, the picture of
demure reluctance and shy expectation.
And when Mrs. Orme was giving the
wounded trooper his breakfast, it was a very
blushing face and eyes somewhat shyly
frightened that hid on the broad expanse of
Reuben’s massive chest. And when he
teasingly whispered to her that he thought
he would have the wedding in a Kaffir
costume, the glance she gave him made him
feel as though all his seventy-three inches
had curled into his boots and then leaped to
the stars. Just such a glance and blush, in
fact, as he got when
some months later
he and his bride
stood gazing into the
mystery the moon¬
light made under the
mountain pines, and
Reuben bent down
to take the winsome,
fearless face in his
hands and asked
her :—

“ Nozv tell me why
it was you risked all
that night—even that
dress—for me ! ”

“ It was because I
loved you,” Ruth said,
with a little smile, her
eyes shining, as she
cuddled up into the
curve of his great,
muscular arm, clasp¬
ing her two little
hands over his brown,
massive wrist. “ And,”
she added, “ because
I just worshipped you
for the way you threw
Carl Bothe into his
own fire ! ”

In Nature's Workshop.

III.—PLANTS THAT GO TO SLEEP.
By Grant Allen.

LANTS sleep almost as truly
as animals. To be sure, their
sleep is a trifle less obtrusive
- plants never snore: but it
is quite real for all that, and
its reality can be shown, as I
hope to show it here, in a great many
instances. Perhaps the best-marked form of
slumber in the vegetable world is that of the
great winter rest, when so many species retire
altogether under the sheltering soil, and
there lie dormant, side by side with the
slumbering animals. We all know that when
winter approaches the sleek dormouse retreats
into his snug nook, a woven nest of warm
grasses just above the ground, where he
dozes away the cold weather in a state of
unconsciousness. Squirrels similarly hiber¬
nate in the holes of tree-trunks; while bears
grow fat in autumn, and after sleeping the
winter through, emerge in April mere wasted
shadows of their October selves. As to the
cold-blooded animals, such as newts and
lizards, snakes and adders, they dream away
the chilly months, like the Seven Sleepers of
Ephesus, coiled up in tangles among the
banks and hedges. The lesser creatures-
snails, and beetles, and grubs, and so
forthr—hibernate underground or conceal
themselves in the crannies of rocks and
walls. But how does this long winter
rest of animals differ, after all, from
the winter rest of the crocus or the
hyacinth, which withdraw all the living
material from their leaves in autumn, and
bury themselves inches deep in the soil in
the shape of a bulb, till February rains or
April suns tempt leaves and flowers out again ?
The whole vast class of bulbous and tuberous
plants, indeed—the lilies, orchids, daffodils,
narcissi, tulips, squills, blue-bells, and
snow-drops—are they not just hibernating
creatures, which retire underground in
autumn with the slugs and the queen wasps,
to reappear in spring about the same time
with the return to upper air of the moles, the
tortoises, and the fritillary butterflies ?

In the case of pond plants and pond
animals, in particular, this close similarity of
habit is especially evident. I have pointed
out in this magazine already how the frogs
and newts betake themselves to the depths
before the surface freezes over; and how at
the same time, when the whirligig beetles and
the tapering pond-snails go below to hiber¬
nate, the buds of the frogbit and the growing
shoots of the curled pondweed similarly
detach their ends from the dying stems so
as to bury themselves safely in the un¬
frozen mud of the oozy bottom. But it
may not strike everyone that much the same
sort of winter sleep, for plants as for animals,
is common on land too. When the squirrel
retires into winter quarters in the trunk of
the oak, where he has stored up his hoard of
acorns against the dead season, does not the
life of the oak itself do just the same thing ?
Does not the tree, too, fall asleep till the
succeeding summer ? I say “ the life of the
oak ” in the most literal sense : for, remember,
the protoplasm or living matter in the green
leaves is withdrawn, before they fall, into the
vital layer just below the bark; and there it
sleeps away the winter, protected by its over¬
coat of cork-like material from the fierce
frosts that would otherwise kill it. Indeed,
it is only the dead skeleton of the leaf that
drops on the ground : the life remains and
hides in the trunk or branches. The withered
leaf is like the sloughed skin of the snake,
the cast shell of the lobster, the empty pupa-
case of the butterfly. Nay, more, one may
say roughly that almost all trees and shrubs
or perennial herbs hibernate—become dor¬
mant in winter : but some of them conceal
their living protoplasm in bulbs or tubers
which they bury underground, while others
store it in the stem or trunk, wrapped warmly
up in a thick vegetable blanket.

Even evergreens sleep, though not quite so
openly. Take two familiar contrasted cases.
The Scotch fir and the larch are closely
related: but the larch, a native of wind¬
swept heights in central Europe and northern

280

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Asia, would have its slender branches broken
and its swaying trunk snapped by the weight
of snow which they would be compelled to
sustain if the leaves persisted on the tree
through the winter, besides running a good
chance of being blown down in every big
storm ; so it has acquired the habit (very
unusual among conifers) of shedding its cast¬
off leaves in autumn like the oak and the
elm, after it has hidden away their vital con¬
tents in the living layer. In this way, it
comparatively escapes the heavy load of snow
it must otherwise bear, and also presents
a far smaller expanse of resisting surface to
the wintry Tyrolese and Siberian tempests.
The Scotch fir, on the other hand, a stouter tree
with stronger branches, can endure the heavy
load of snow, which it shifts often enough as
the wind strikes it * so it has evergreen
leaves, like most of its class : but these
needle-like leaves are thick-skinned and
covered with a protective glassy glaze which
effectually guards the living matter within
from the frosts of
January. Large-
leaved evergreens,
like the common
laurel and the rhodo¬
dendron, have a
similar glassy layer
to protect their
foliage : but they are
more southern types;
our northern winter
tries them often, and
in severe seasons
they get terribly frost¬
bitten. Even these
evergreens them¬
selves thus sleep,
though unobtru¬
sively : that is to say,
their life is really
suspended more or
less during the winter
months, though the
living material is
then exposed in the
leaves, instead of being withdrawn into the
bark as in the larch, or into a bulb or tuber
as in the tulip and the crocus.

But besides this yearly winter sleep or
hibernation a great many plants also sleep
every night : in other words, they suspend
more or less their usual activities, and devote
themselves to rest and recuperation. For
what do we mean by sleep ? Well, Mr.
Herbert Spencer has admirably defined it as
“ the period when repair predominates over

waste.” During our waking times, we walk,
work, waste—use up the living material of
the body : in our sleeping hours, we rebuild
and restore it. Now this '.s not quite true
to the same extent of plants : though even
plants in certain senses grow more by night
than by day. Yet it is true in the main that
plants suspend in their sleeping hours a great
many functions which they carry on while
they wake : and that the sleeping time is
mostly devoted to repair and growth, not to
active intercourse with external nature. By
day, plants eat: by night, they utilize and
arrange what they have eaten.

My illustration No. i shows the leaf of a
mimosa bush in its waking moments. You
would call it at first sight rather a branch
than a leaf, no doubt; but in that you would
be mistaken : it is really one much-divided
leaf, though not by any means a simple one :
and when it falls off, it falls off from the base
like a single structure. It is, in point of
fact, a very compound leaf, split up into
four main parts, each
of which is again sub¬
divided into many
opposite pairs of
leaflets. Now, in
No. i here, the leaf
is seen as it looks
when expanded in
the broad daylight:
it is hard at work
eating and drinking
for the benefit of the
plant: it absorbs, by
all its hundred little
mouths or leaflets,
the carbonic acid of
the surrounding air,
which it converts,
under the influence
of sunlight,-into suit¬
able plant-food. It
thus works in the
daylight just as truly
as the busy bee
works when it
gathers honey : just as truly as the ant works
when it collects dead meat and scraps of ant-
provender : just as truly as the kingfisher
works when it darts down upon the trout, or
as the fly-catcher works when it swoops upon
the flies that flit about in the garden. All these
are diurnal plants and animals; they utilize,
as Dr. Watts succinctly puts it, “each shining
hour ” : and they rest when night comes from
their daily labours. For remember, a plant
can only eat its proper food, carbonic acid,

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

281

while the light falls upon it; at night it must
sleep, digest, and distribute what it has eaten.

No. 2 shows us a larger branch of the same
mimosa bush, with two such compound
leaves, seen as they look when folded up in
sleep during the dark
hours of the evening.

Not only the famous
and well-known Sensi¬
tive Plant sleeps like
this, but also many
other kinds of mimosa
and acacia much culti¬
vated in our green¬
houses. It is a pretty
sight to see them falling
gradually asleep —
dozing off, if I may be
allowed that familiar ex¬
pression. First of all
the opposite pairs of
leaflets fold together
upward, so as to present
a single combined sur¬
face, like that of a
hinged tablet when you
shut its halves together.

Then the four main
leaf-stalks on which the
leaflets are fixed sink
slowly down like a sleepy
child, and double them¬
selves away out of the
range of danger. Last
of all, the principal leaf¬
stalk or main mid-rib
of the whole branch¬
like leaf itself droops
and drops drowsily, and
the entire structure hangs limp, as if dead,
against the branch that supports it. In No. 2
you can see a pair of such four-branched
leaves sound asleep in their pende attitude.
Each of these, when expanded, would

resemble the open and active leaf in No. t.
You can see for yourself that the waking leaf
is obviously equipped for work and action,
while the sleeping leaves are quite as obviously
arranged for rest and recuperation. You can
also observe in No. 2 the main leaf-stalk or
mid-rib of a third leaf, which is hanging

down unseen, out of the field of the drawing.

The machinery for producing these curious
sleep-movements is situated in certain very
irritable little knobs at the base of the leaf¬
stalk, one of which you can observe close to
the stem in the case of the lowest leaf-stalk
(with its leaf unseen) in No. 2. The
mechanism acts much like a nervous system :

Vol. xvii.—36.

it governs the movements and attitudes of
the leaf by night or day. In the true Sensi¬
tive Plants, the leaflets fold up out of harm’s
way when touched. In most mimosas and
acacias, however, they only fold at night, or
in very cold or dark
weather. Their folding
is partly effected for the
sake of warmth, because
they then expose only
one surface of each leaf;
it may be compared to
the way in which mice
and other animals curl
up in their nests, or to
the habit of snakes in
lying coiled up in holes,
knotted together one
with the other. But it
is partly also done for
physiological reasons :
the plant rebuilds itself
in sleep just as truly as
the animal, and this pos¬
ture seems to suit its
growing and redistri¬
buting activities.

In No. 3 we have a
branch of that common
and beautiful little
English wild-flower, the
wood-sorrel. The plant
is here represented wide
awake in the daytime,
its blossom expanded
to court the insects
that fertilize it, and
its leaves wide open,
drinking in its gaseous
food as fast as they can drink it. Wood-
sorrel is a tender and thin-textured spring
herb; a chill is therefore highly prejudicial
to its health : without being exactly delicate
—for . in a certain sense wood-sorrel may
even be called hardy—it feels the need for
taking care of itself. Severe cold nips it
up : even gentle frosts have a bad effect upon
it. But the wise herb has arranged against
such adverse chances by the peculiar disposi¬
tion of its dainty wan foliage. The leaves
are composed of three leaflets each, and
even at a casual glance, something about
their mid-ribs might suggest to you the idea
that they were intended for folding. And so
they are. They fold quaintly downward—
not one against the other, as in the mimosa,
but half of each leaflet against the other half.
In the sunshine and the warmth they expand
to the utmost, as you see in No. 3 ; when

282

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

night falls they fall too, as you can observe
in No. 4, where both leaves and flowers are
fast asleep, resting after the arduous labours
of the day in a profound slumber.

If you consider what the parts are
doing in each case you will realize that
day differs from night for the plant exactly
as it differs for the animal—the one
being a period of direct intercourse with
external nature, and the other a period of
repose, growth, and internal restoration. For
during the daytime, the wood-sorrel swallows
or sucks in with its leaves such carbonic acid
as the wind brings its way, and then exposes
it in the full sunlight to be assimilated and
rendered useful : but by night it folds its
leaves, just as the shopkeeper puts up his
shutters or the mill stops work; it keeps
them warm by contact with one another;
and it begins to use up the material it has
eaten for growth and development. Similarly
with the dainty white lilac-streaked flowers :
during the day they open their slender
petals, hold up their heads, and receive
the visits of the insects upon whom
they depend for fertilization : but when
night comes, and the insects have gone to
bed, it is no use hanging out the sign any
longer, so to speak—-for the petals are just
sign-boards to attract the eyes of the insect
customers. Various misfortunes might happen
to the flower in the cold spring nights, if
it still kept open. The frost might nip up
and wilt the petals : rain might fall and wash
away the honey or the pollen : wind might
disperse the fruitful golden grains, intended
for the seed-vessels of sister blossoms. So
the prudent plant imitates the little beasts

which curl themselves up in their holes: it
makes the flower hang its head and close its
petals, so as to imprison warm air within its
bell-shaped hollow. In this position, it is safest
from rain, which can neither fill the cup so as to
break the stem, nor dilute the honey, nor waste
the pollen. Thus, all night long, the wood-
sorrel suspends its business intercourse with
the outer world, and retires upon itself for
rest and recuperation ; when morning comes
again, it opens its leaflets to drink in the air
and the sun, and lifts its flowers once more to
attract the insects. Alike for warmth, for
safety, and for economy, it sleeps by night;
it wakes by day, and engages actively in the
business of its existence.

I may add that we know otherwise how
particularly necessary is heat to the wood-
sorrel. If you examine the under-side of the
winter leaves—I mean those few old leaves
which manage to struggle on from the
preceding year through an English January
—you will find that they are distinctly
reddish or purple. Now, chemists have
shown us that this red or purple
colouring matter which is spread on the
under-side of the foliage in many plants
is a substance with a curious power of catch¬
ing the remnant of such light-rays as pass
unused through the green cells of the leaf,
and transforming them into heat-rays. To
put it plainly, the red pigment is a warmth-
catcher, a machine for transmuting light into
heat. You therefore find it most often on

4.— WOOD-SORREL ; THE FLOWER AND LEAVES BOTH ASLEEP.

the under-side of many early spring plants,
which naturally need all the heat they can
get, as well as on aquatic herbs like the
water-lilies, whose under-surface is constantly

IN NATURE’S WORKSHOP.

chilled (even in summer) by contact with the
cold water. For example, the cyclamens so
commonly grown in drawing-room windows
in winter have bright purple under-sides to
their leaves, because they grow and flower in
the coldest months : so has an exotic wood-
sorrel, which is a favourite pot-plant with
cottagers, and which goes to sleep every night
of its life, even more conspicuously than our
wild English species. In every case where
you light upon purple or red colouring matter
abundantly present in leaves or shoots (as in
sprouting peonies, and spring growth of rose¬
bushes), you may at least suspect that warmth
is its principal purpose. Nature does nothing
in vain : there is always a reason in the
merest detail.

But you may ask, “ Why do not all leaves
equally go to sleep at night ? Why have you
thus to pick out a few select examples ? ”
The answer is, all leaves do ; but some of
them sleep more conspicuously and visibly
than others. The cases in which you can
see that they sleep are those of plants with
thin and delicate foliage, where the leaves or
leaflets gain mutual protection against radia¬
tion and cold by putting themselves, so to
speak, two layers thick. Very dainty spring
foliage shows sleep most obviously: very
thick and coarse leaves, like those of the
cyclamen, the rhododendron, the Siberian
saxifrage, or the common laurel, sleep with¬
out folding; they have warmth enough or
glassy covering enough to resist injury.
Here again we can see the analogy between
the nightly and the winter sleep : thin-leaved
trees shed their leaves in autumn: thick¬
leaved kinds, such as laurustinus, spruce-fir,
and laurel, retain them unshed through the
entire winter.

The sleep of flowers is even more con¬
spicuous and more readily aroused than the
sleep of leaves. Blossoms are delicate and
much exposed. Foliage for the most part
sleeps by night only : but flowers take casual
naps now and again when danger looms in
the daytime. This is only what one might
expect; for the flower is usually the part of
the plant which does the most varied external
business and holds the most specialized inter¬
course with the rest of nature. The leaf has
relations with the sun and the air alone ; but
the flower has to attract and satisfy all sorts
of fastidious and capricious insect assistants :
it has to produce pollen, honey, and seeds :
it has to provide for its own fertilization and
that of its neighbours. Flence, it may have
to wake or sleep in accordance with the con¬
venience of the outer world : just as a railway

283

porter or a club servant must get up and go
to bed, not when he chooses himself, but
when his employers choose to make him.
The rule with flowers is this : they open the
shop when customers are most likely to drop
in ; they shut it when there is nobody about
and when valuable goods like honey and
pollen run a risk of getting damaged.

The purple crocus, illustrated in its work¬
ing hours in No. 5, is an early spring flower
which has to open under considerable dis¬
advantages. It lays by material during the
previous summer in an underground bulb,
sleeps the winter through, and pushes up its
head in the very early spring, at a time when
frost and snow are still extremely probable.
All such early spring plants, I need scarcely
say, are naturally hardy : they also wrap
themselves up warm in blankets and over¬
coats. The crocus bud when it first emerges
is folded tight (like an Indian pappoose or
an Italian bambino) in a neat and com¬
modious papery coverlet : it only peeps
out of its close-fitting mummy-case when
the weather promises a chance of success¬
ful flowering. A little break of warmth
in February or March, however, suffices for
its purpose. It will unfold its purple corolla
gaily in the sun, and flaunt its golden-yellow
stigma in the midst of the blue cup to allure
its winged allies to the store of honey.

These allies are all of them bees, dozens of
whom venture out on the prowl on sunny
days through the whole winter. It is for
them that the gorse hangs out its nutty-
scented flowers : for them that the crocuses,
golden or purple, expand their chalices. As
long as the sun shines, in spite of cold east
winds, the bees bury themselves deep in the
tempting blossoms, dust their hairy thighs with
quantities of pollen, and rub it off against the
feathery and sticky stigmas of the next flower
they visit. But spring sunshine is not a joy
to count upon. Great white clouds roll up
and obscure the clear blue sky ; a cold wind
accompanies them ; the bees hurry off, full¬
laden, to their hives or their underground
nests ; rain, sleet, or snow threatens. The
prudent crocus perceives that all chance of
business is over for the present, and, like a
booth-keeper at a fair, when the crowd has
gone, it proceeds to shut up its shop and
take care of its merchandise. And it is well
advised, for its shape renders it peculiarly
liable to damage from rain or sleet when
open ; so it closes its corolla, as you see in
No. 6, making the folded lobes do duty as an
umbrella. If rain or snow comes, it is thus
effectually protected : the pollen is not washed

284

7 HE S TEA HE MAGAZINE.

away, nor is the large and fleshy stigma ruined.
You will find these tactics common among
cup-shaped or chalice-shaped flowers like
the crocus and the tulip: they never occur

5.—PURPLE CROCUS, OPEN IN SUNSHINE.

among bell-shaped hanging flowers, like the
harebell or the wild hyacinth, where the
whole blossom, being turned downward and
entered from below, forms a perpetual um¬
brella to guard its own pollen and its own
honey from stress of weather. These last
are a higher and more evolved type, belong¬
ing for the most part to very advanced and
progressive families.

Most spring flowers, however, in their
anxiety to attract the few insect visitors
who are about at that treacherous period of
the year, keep open door, and spread their
blossoms, cup-like, upward. Examples, other
than the crocus and the tulip, are the winter
aconite, the buttercup, the wood-anemone,
the Alpine gentians, the globe-flower, and the
hepatica. Most of these early flowers shut
up for every passing cloud, and open again
for every gleam of sunshine. They are hard
at work all the time, opening and shutting as
the weather changes. On a typical April
day I have often noticed the yellow crocuses
expand and close half-a-dozen times over.

A great many flowers which have the
honey and pollen openly exposed in this
cup-like way are much given to closing, even
in summer, for every cloud that passes,
because they are naturally so afraid of being

spoiled by a wetting. This is particularly
the case with the wheel-shaped forms—those,
I mean, with open flat saucers like the
common pimpernels. An old English name
for our little red pimpernel is “shepherd’s
weather-glass,” because it opens its eyes in
the broad sunlight, but closes them at once
in shade or when a cloud passes. Plants of
this type sleep all night long habitually, but
also take a gentle doze every now and again
when danger lowers. So fowls have been
known to go to roost during a total eclipse
of the sun, and many small birds settle
themselves to sleep in dark and gloomy
weather.

In No. 7 we have a branch of the common
wild geranium or herb-robert, a well-known
English weed, which exhibits this peculiarity
in a marked degree. Here you see three
flowers awake and expanded, with their
pretty purple petals (marked by darker lines
or honey-guides) flaunting in the sun as ad¬
vertisements to the insects. The lines on
the petals are not there for mere ornament:
they point straight to the honey, and so save
the time of the visitor, by showing him at once
where he should stick his inquisitive proboscis
in search of it. But No. 8 exhibits the very
same branch in the evening or when clouds are
obscuring the sun. Danger now looms : a
shower threatens. So what does the fright¬
ened wild geranium do ? Ofl^erve that the

6.—A CLOUD PASSES J THE CROCUS CLOSES TO PROTECT
ITS POLLEN.

overblown flowers, the buds, and the leaves
retain their positions as before : rain cannot
hurt them. But the three open flowers
bend their heads against the storm, instead

IN NATURE’S WORKSHOP.

285

of closing their petals :
they convert themselves
into an umbrella, thus
temporarily imitating
the tactics of the blue¬
bells and the snow¬
drops. By this simple
device, the honey and
pollen are secured from
danger. When day or
sunshine returns, the
geranium raises its
lolling heads again,
because its flowers are
small and inconspicu¬
ous : they depend upon
minor insect visitors—
flies or the like—and
cannot afford to do
without the display of
their purple upper-side,
like the far more noticeable hyacinths and
harebells.

A different method of compassing the same
result is seen in that queer English Aveed, the
carline thistle.. It is a very common plant on
our chalk downs, and on many dry hillsides :
it abounds, for example, on Box Hill: and
yet, if you are not a botanist, I greatly doubt
Avhether you will ever have noticed it. For
it is a curious creature which always looks
dead, even when it is most alive : you can
see it in No. 9 much as in real life, only you
must remember that its
colour is almost that of a
dry dead thistle. Its leaves
are cottony; its flowers
are dingy in hue ; and its
general aspect is suggesti\ r e
of death, decay, and dis¬
solution. Yet it is really
very much alive : and its
form is so admirably
adapted to its place in
nature, that I think before
I describe its mode of
sleeping I must first devote
a few lines in passing to
its other dodges for picking
up an honest livelihood.

The carline grows only
on dry fields, high open
sheep-Avalks, and sandhills
by the sea. All these
places are, of course, much liable to be
browsed over by sheep, cattle, donkeys, and
other animals, not forgetting the destruc¬
tive rabbit and that strangest of all grazers,
the goose—a bird Avhich puts itself into

competition with the
herbivorous ruminants,
and crops the meadoAA^s
with its bill shorter and
closer than any of them
Avith their teeth. Noaa^,
all plants which live
under such conditions
are obliged to adopt
protective measures
against animal depre¬
dators. Most of them
are prickly: such are
gorse, blackthorn, and
the common thistles :
nay, there are even
certain herbs, like the
pretty pink rest-harrow,
Avhich are unarmed
Avhen they grow in
inclosed meadoAvs, but
which produce a special prickly variety Avhen
they occupy spots exposed to donkeys,

rabbits, and geese, the Avorst and deadliest
of grazing enemies. Other plants defend
themselves in subtler Avays, by bitter juices,
or by unpleasant hairs dotted about over
their surface. Yet others, like the subter¬
ranean clover, bury their ripening pods
underground, so that their seeds at least
may escape the keen-eyed depredators.

The thistles of rich meadoAvs have long

stalks and rise a foot or tAVO high :

but on the fine sward of
chalk downs, a special
species has been deve¬
loped, knoAvn as the Stem¬
less Thistle, which consists
simply of a rosette of
prickly leaves, in Avhose
midst a compact head of
floAvers lies pressed close
to the ground, and Avell
protected by the prickly
points of the leaves
around it. Indeed, the
Avhole nibbled turf of the
doAA’ns consists everyAvhere
of creeping or loA\ T -groAving
plants, specially designed
to floAver and fruit, and
so reproduce their kind,
in spite of the murderous
assaults of animals to
AA T hich they are continually subjected.

It is in the midst of such a stunted A\ T orld
as this that the carline has to carve itself out
a niche in nature. Its leaves, as you can
see in No. 9, are pressed flat against the

8.—WILD GERANIUM, AT NIGHT OR IN
CLOUDY WEATHER, MAKING EACH
FLOWER INTO AN UMBRELLA FOR THE
PROTECTION OF THE POLLEN.

286

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

ground, looking almost as if they had been
trodden into it—a peculiarity still more
noticeable in the specialized form of plan¬
tain evolved in chalk country, on whose
lawns it is a weed much hated by gar¬
deners. These leaves are intensely prickly,
with long and rigid spines protecting them
at all angles from the attacks of nibblers.
The whole carline plant is remarkably rigid
and juiceless; in winter it looks absolutely

florets of a daisy or a chrysanthemum. But
when the air becomes damp, the bracts, which
are highly sensitive to moisture, curl up of
themselves, as you see in No. io, and form a
sort of hut or shed above the true flowers in
the centre. The conical tent or pent-house
thus produced makes a shelter against the
impending rain, which would wash away the
pollen and dissolve the honey. The illustra¬
tion shows you very well the general arrange-

dead, but revives again in spring as if by a
miracle. In the centre of the rosette of
spiny leaves a flower-head develops, looking
at first sight like a single flower, but consisting
really of many tubular bells, clustered together
in a round group, and inclosed by an
involucre or prickly basket of bracts. The
inner bracts of this basket are long, slender,
and ray-like : in texture they are thin and
shining like straw, while in hue they are of a
pale straw-colour, so that they add altogether
to the dead-alive aspect of the plant. But
when these shining straw-coloured bracts are
spread out horizontally in the sunlight, forming
a crown about the true flowers or little bells
in the centre, they produce precisely the
effect of petals, and serve the same purpose
in attracting the notice of the fertilizing
insects. No. 9 shows you the aspect of the
carline in these its most alluring moments,
when it is laying itself out to be agreeable to
visitors.

That is the attitude it always adopts in
bright dry weather, when the winged guests
on which it depends for fruiting are around
and active. Its bracts then spread out like
the rays of a star, and mimic the true ray-

ment of the plant and its parts, consisting
outside of a rosette of spinous leaves, and
inside of a basket or involucre to guard the
flowers : this involucre itself being once more
composed of two distinct parts; the outer
layer of prickly and protective bracts, designed
to ward off browsing enemies, and the inner
layer of thin, dry bracts, with a shiny texture
like that of everlastings, designed in dry
weather to play the part of petals, and in wet
to rise up as an umbrella or rain-shelter.

The word carline is good old English for a
withered old woman, a wizened witch, and it
is very aptly applied to this curious and
tattered grey weather-beaten species. Robert
Burns applies it to the hags whose orgies
were interrupted by Tam o’ Shanter.

Most plants and most animals sleep by
night and wake by day. But there are of
course a number of kinds, both in the animal
and vegetable world, which find it pays them
best to be nocturnal. Day is the time when
most enemies are abroad : therefore, to get
the better of the enemies, it may be well to
sleep by day and turn out in the twilight.
Defenceless species, no doubt,begin the game:
they fly abroad in the dusk to secure safety

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

287

from birds and other aggressive foes. That
is the policy of the moths, the fireflies,
the mosquitoes, and many other night-flying
insects. Then the bats and the night-jars
discover in turn that it is worth while to
prowl about at night, in order to swoop down
upon the insects which have thus tried to
escape from the swifts, the swallows, the
martins, and the fly-catchers. Similarly, the
smaller mammals, such as mice and shrews,

greater certainty than if it had to compete
with the ruck that opens every morning.
So a great many flowers have taken the
hint and laid themselves out for this twilight
blossoming. I will give you one simple
example first, and then pass on to more
complex cases.

Everybody knows the common English
red campion—the day lychnis, or Robin
Hood as it is often called in the country.

IO.—CARLINE THISTLE : CLOUDY WEATHER OR NIGHT : THE BRACTS CLOSE AND FORM A PENT-HOUSE TO

PROTECT THE FLOWERS.

go out by night in search of beetles : and the
owls follow in search of mice and shrews.
Thus the larger half of nature is by habit
diurnal, while the smaller half has become
nocturnal, either to escape its enemies or to
capture its prey. It is like the human case
of guns and armour : we make armour-plated
ironclads so thick that no gun can pierce
them; then we invent new guns which can
pierce even the impenetrable armour.
Nature is one vast game of check and
counter-check: it consists of devices in¬
tended to outwit other devices, and them¬
selves outwitted in turn by devices still more
stringent or more marvellously cunning.

Now plants too have followed the general
fashion of producing nocturnal types, wher¬
ever the circumstances rendered it desirable
for them to do so. The night-flying moths
are in many cases honey-eaters, therefore
they may be utilized as carriers of pollen by
any enterprising plant that chooses to lay
itself out for securing their services. Here
are so many Pickford’s vans, as it were,
going begging : the plant that chooses to
flower at night and close by day will be able
to get its fertilization done cheap, with

It is a pretty pink flower, scentless and
somewhat weedy, and it grows abundantly
in hedgerows all over England. It is pink,
because it is principally fertilized by day¬
flying butterflies, which love bright colour :
it needs no perfume, because its brilliant
hue is sufficient advertisement for all practical
purposes. But it has a very near relation,
almost exactly like it save in two respects:
and this relation is the white evening
lychnis or night-flowering campion. It
differs from the red campion, first in colour,
and second in being delicately and per¬
vasively scented. Why ? Because it opens
its blossoms about five or six in the evening,
in order to catch the night-flying moths.
These moths are chiefly attracted by white
flowers, which show up best in the grey dusk
of evening : and they are also guided very
largely by scent, so that blossoms which lay
themselves out for the patronage of moths
are almost always heavily perfumed.

A few more examples will show you some
other peculiarities of this group of night¬
blooming moth-alluring blossoms. Everybody
now knows the so-called “ tobacco-plant ” or
Nieotiana affinis, so greatly cultivated of late

288

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

in gardens. This
beautiful and grace¬
ful flower closes X
during the day, but
opens at nightfall,
when its pure white
blossoms become
strongly scented. If
you are at all in the
habit of noticing
flowers, too, you
must have observed
that the “ tobacco-
plant ” is almost self-
luminous in the
dusk : it glows with
a strange phosphor¬
escent light, as if
illuminated from
within. This is the
case with many nocturnal flowers, and I sus¬
pect (though I do not know) that the property
is connected with their insect-eating habits,
about which more by-and-by. Again, you
may note that there are a large number of
similar night-flowering plants, all of them
moth - fertilized, such as gardenia, white
jasmine, tuberose, stephanotis, night-flowering
cereus, and so forth. All of these are pure
white, and all of them are heavily scented
with very similar perfumes. Moreover (and
this is a curious coincidence), none of them
have any streaks, spots, or lines on their
petals. The reason is simple. Such streaks
or lines are always honey-guides, to lead the
insect straight to the nectary. Day insects
see such lines and are greatly influenced by
them : but at night
they would be useless,
so their place is taken
by scent and by deep
tubes, which make a
dark spot near the
centre of the blossom.

What night flowers
need most is a bright
white surface which
will reflect all the
small light they can
get: and this I suspect
they sometimes supple¬
ment by a faint phos¬
phorescence.

The Nottingham
Catchfly, which you see
asleep by day in No. 11,
is a highly developed

example of these
nocturnal flowers.
During the daytime
it covers its blossoms
by bending its petals
inward, so as to
preserve its honey
from casual diurnal
visitors, and keep it
till night for the
regular customers.
At evening it opens
them again, as you see
in No. 12, display¬
ing its brilliant white
inner surface, which
is dazzling in its
purity. But why, you
may ask, does it not
avail itself of the day
insects as well ? Because they are not
the ones specially fitted to do its work:
their heads are not of the right shape : the
Nottingham Catchfly has laid itself out for
special moths, and has so formed its blossoms
that those moths can fertilize it most easily
and most economically. It is a good example
of a highly developed type, specially fitted
for a particular visitor.

The name of Catchfly, again, it owes to an
odd peculiarity which it shares with many
other nocturnal flowers. The top of the
stem at the flowering period is covered with
sticky hairs, which have glands at their tips :
and these glands exude a peculiar viscid
liquid. Small flies light on the stem, and are
caught by the sort of bird-lime thus prepared
for them ; the plant
then digests them and
sucks their juices. I
do not know whether
my next guess is cor¬
rect or not—I am not
chemist enough myself
to verify it: but I am
inclined to conjecture
that the plant uses up
the phosphates in the
bodies of the insects in
order to produce the
peculiar luminous ap¬
pearance of the petals
in the twilight. I leave
this hint for those of
my readers whose
chemical skill may be
greater than mine is.

NIGHT, WHEN ITS MOTHS ARE FLYING.

Bv E. M. Jameson.

USK had fallen upon the lonely
stretches of Dartmoor. Grey
mists swept round the summits
of the tors and lay thick and
impenetrable in the valleys
below, and little by little the
landmarks were blotted from view.

Something as grey as the shadows crawled
from a cleft in one of the tors and, as if with
every nerve quickened, stood upright to
listen. Not a sound broke the stillness; in
the whole of that vast solitude not a creature
seemed to stir, and the man in grey, as he
looked around him, drew a long breath of
relief.

All day, from his eyrie in the furrowed side
of the rock, he had seen men scouring the
moor, beating about as if for game, and
passing within a few yards of their quarry’s
hiding-place. So close, indeed, that once he
cowered back with a sick apprehension that
sent great drops of moisture coursing down
his face, enduring the torture of the eternally
lost at the thought of recapture.

The searchers had gone, but the convict
knew that, for a certainty, the kingdom must
be ringing with his miraculous escape, and
that far and near he would be looked for.
Better a thousand times to die here in the

Vol. xvii.— a7.

open than be retaken. He glanced around
him desperately. The wide road that
traversed the moor was hardly distinguishable
in the gloom. He must keep away from the
beaten track and trust in Providence.

Providence ! He smiled at the word ; but
it was easier of belief here in the open, with
the keen, pure atmosphere setting his senses
quivering with the joy of living, than there.
His eyes turned in the direction of Prince-
town, not many miles away, and he
shuddered.

To the luxurious man of the world, twelve
months of a convict’s life had seemed a
century, and there would be many and many
and many a year to follow. His hand sought
mechanically in his breast for the fragment of
rope he had picked up near his hiding-place.
There were other means of escape after all.
To rid himself of his tell-tale apparel was the
problem.

He crept down the rugged side of the tor
half fearfully, every rustle of the heather
against his foot making him start. The
hunger which all day had been so acute as
to be painful had now become an aching
sensation that did not greatly trouble him.

Pie felt almost gay by the time he had
tramped a few miles, and with difficulty kept

290

THE STRAND MAGAZINE ,.

from breaking into a whistle. He was young
and strong, and the shame and degradation
fell away from him. He kept as close as he
could to the road, and presently, seeing a
fairly wide footpath, he passed down it and
came to a large iron gate. He pressed his
face against the bars and looked in, making
out the form of a long, low house against the
lighter glimmer of the sky. Coming towards
him was the light of carriage-lamps.

He crouched among the brake ^ a groom
got down, and the gate swung open. In the
momentary pause the watcher heard a
pleasant, cultivated man’s voice, either that
of the driver or his companion, say :—

“ Then the little chap doesn’t mind being
left to his own devices ? It’s rather dull for
him, isn’t it ? ”

“I suppose so,” replied another voice,
irritably; “but he’s used to it, poor little
beggar. After all, a man must dine out now
and then.”

The mare plunged forward and the gate
swung to with a click. The listener’s pulses
beat at lightning speed. Here was his
opportunity.

He made his way rapidly up the drive,

room. He stood in the middle of the floor,
his face puckered into a perplexed frown.
He was dressed in the most incongruous
fashion, like a miniature clown. Though
time-pressed, Geoffrey Borradaile could not
refrain from looking at the child, his be¬
haviour was so funny. He bowed to an
imaginary audience, then, giving a sudden
twirl, endeavoured to stand on his head.
Again and again he tried, only to fail as many
times, and the onlooker grew quite excited
over the performance. So much so, indeed,
that, forgetting where he was, he leant too
heavily against the long French window, and
it suddenly opened inward and precipitated
him into the room.

He found himself confronting the aston
ished acrobat, from whom he momentarily ♦
expected to hear a cry of alarm. In former
days Geoffrey had been beloved of animals
and children, and this characteristic stood
him in good stead now. The boy looked at
him gravely, then his little face broke into a
smile.

“Why, you're dressed up, too,” he said,
thrusting his hands into his baggy trousers
as he surveyed the man in grey; “ what fun !

WHY, YOU’RE DRESSED UP, TOO ! ”

listening at intervals. As he neared the
house he saw a light glimmering from a long
window at the left of the hall-door. The
blind was only partly drawn, and he looked in.

A little boy was the sole occupant of the

Now there’ll be two to pretend. It’s so dull
by myself, though I make up a good deal as
I go along.”

The visitor took the cue at once. “So it
is,” he replied, at the same time looking

THE BROAD ARROW.

291

round cautiously^; “ but is there no one here
to play with you 7 ”

As he spoke he lowered the blind, an
action which Teddy did not notice. The
child shook his head.

“ Father’s gone out to dinner, and so has
Uncle Jack—Uncle Jack only came the day
before yesterday. Nurse and cook are in
the kitchen ; Kate—that’s the housemaid—
has gone to see her mother at Post Bridge ;
and Courtman’s out with the dog - cart.
Courtman’s really nicer than any of them.”

“Perhaps you are accustomed to playing
by yourself? ”

> Tears suddenly rose in Teddy’s eyes, but
he tried to blink them away before the visitor
could see them.

“There—there used to be mother, you
know. Fathers are different somehow, aren’t
they ? They haven’t time, I suppose ? ”
looking with wistful eyes at his visitor for
confirmation of the fact.

“ Quite different; there’s nothing in the
whole world like a mother.” Geoffrey was
thinking of his own boyhood’s days.

A tear fell from Teddy’s down-bent face on
the carpet at the speaker’s feet, but as it
soaked in at once, Teddy hoped it had not
been noticed. Pie rumpled his curly pate
and heaved a sigh.

“ I say, what shall we play at ? ”

“ You choose,” replied the man in grey,
his hearing always painfully on the alert for
surprises. “ I must say that I’m rather tired
of this get-up—yours is so much better than
mine.”

“ Well, yours is rather hideous,” said
Teddy, endeavouring to mingle candour with
politeness ; “ but then I suppose it’s more un¬
common than mine. 1 had it for a fancy
dress ball, and I’m going to another soon,
when they make a new mayor, you know, and
I do so want to be able to turn a somersault.”

“ It would be useful.”

“ I shall have to manage to learn some¬
how p said Teddy, with portentous gravity.
“Bob Smith can turn beauties. I say,” his
eyes travelling afresh over the other’s costume,
“ what are those things ? Something like the
tops of toasting-forks.”

He broke into an infectious splutter of
laughter, and Borradaile smiled in response,
despite the torture of inaction.

“ I can’t imagine why I chose this rig-out,”
he replied, keeping up the farce. “ I wish I’d
something else to put on.”

Teddy suddenly sprang into the air, his
face red with excitement.

“ Why, there are heaps and heaps of things

upstairs ; let’s go and get some, and then
perhaps you’d teach me to turn a somer¬
sault ? I can nearly do it—you’d only have
to give me a shove at the right time. Do
come along, only very quietly, or nurse will
come, and I don’t want her to.”

Nor did Borradaile; and they stole across
the hall and up the staircase, he taking off
his heavy boots and carrying them under his
arm, upon which Teddy, with a silent, burg¬
larious chuckle of enjoyment, sat on the
bottom stair and removed his little patent
leather house shoes, tucking them under his
capacious scarlet and white sleeve.

They had reached the top of the flight,
when a voice from the hall below sent a
sickening wave of terror over Borradaile.

“ Master Theodore, where are you ? ”

Teddy held up his finger, warningly, and
advanced to the top of the stairs.

“ I’m here, nurse; I’ve only come to get
something out of father’s room; he said I
could have it.”

“ It’s getting on for your bedtime, so don’t
be long up there. I’ll put your supper in
the study, unless you’d like to have it with
cook and me in the kitchen.”

“ I’m just not going to have it in the
kitchen ; put it in the study, and father said
I could have some chicken if I liked.”

The steps retreated again, to the accom¬
paniment of muttered remarks, and Teddy,
having routed the enemy, led the way
triumphantly to his father’s room.

“ Nurse is so cross,” he explained, trying
at the same time to drag a heavy box forward.
“ I’m too old for a nurse now. Bob Smith
says it’s rediclus. When we go home I shall
be eight, and then I’ll ask father if I can do
without one.”

“ Isn’t this your home?” asked Borradaile,
his eyes glancing quickly round the dimly-
lighted, untidy bedroom.

“One of’em,” replied Teddy; “the other’s
ever so much bigger; but I had fever, and
the doctor said I was to come here for
change. Hasn’t my hair grown ? You look
as if you’d had fever, yours is so short.”

Borradaile reddened, and passed his hand
over his close-cropped head.

“I like short hair, Theodore.”

Teddy began to laugh again, but fortu¬
nately, both in his utterances and his mirth,
he kept up the role of burglar, and was very
mysterious and silent.

“ So does father and Uncle Jack. Uncle
Jack wears his nearly as short as you. But,
I say, everybody except the servants, and
even some of them, call me Teddy.”

292

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE .

He had opened the trunk and now dis¬
played its contents, a heterogeneous collec¬
tion of costumes, for Teddy’s' father was
great at theatricals, and in his time had
played many parts. There was a box of
cosmetics, at sight of which Borradaile’s
face brightened. Luck seemed superlatively
good, so far; surely it would not desert him
now. Teddy, who had been watching his
face, chuckled silently with pleasure.

“ Choose whatever you like,” he said,

revolver lying upon a side-table; he looked
at it longingly, hesitated, then put it in his
pocket. Then he stole to the head of the
stairs and listened. The house was very
quiet. He could hear Teddy humming softly
to himself.

He made his way to the study, and held
up his hand just in time to prevent the boy’s
exclamation.

“You’re so like Uncle Jack,” he said,
walking round his guest, “and he just has

CHOOSE WHATEVER YOU LIKE.”

smoothing a laced satin coat that lay upper¬
most, “ then, when you’re ready, we’ll pre¬
tend.” Borradaile had already made his
choice.

“Go down and wait for me, Teddy; you
see I want to surprise you,” as the boy’s face
lengthened. “ Don’t say a word to anyone,
and I’ll be with you in no time.”

Teddy nodded, and ran off cheerfully
enough, his parti-coloured raiment flapping
round him as he ran.

In that other life which seemed so far
away, Geoffrey Borradaile had also taken
part in amateur theatricals. He changed
characters now with a celerity he had never
attained to in those days, donning the entire
costume of a country gentleman which he
found lying upon the bed just as his host had
flung it, and leaving in exchange under the
raiment in the trunk a suit of grey adorned
with the broad arrow. There was a loaded

that broivny look. But why did you choose
such a stupid get-up? Let’s have some
supper, though, and then you’ll teach me the
somersault, won’t you? Nurse is all right,
because one of Farmer Giles’s men has come
in. The one she likes. Do be quick.”

There was chicken on the table, and
bread-and-butter and new milk. Teddy was
far too excited to eat, and at no time had he
a large appetite, yet to this day nurse tells
how a little boy of seven disposed of half a
chicken and unlimited bread-and-butter at
one meal.

Geoffrey Borradaile ate hastily. There was
the somersault instruction to be given, and
he had a code of honour still which made it
difficult to disappoint and break faith with a
child. Yet it was madness to stay. He rose,
went to the door, and listened. A subdued
chatter, broken by a shout of laughter, came
from the kitchen. He returned to Teddy,

v THE BROAD ARROW.

2 93

who had watched his movements with
interest.

“I believe you’re afraid of her yourself!”
he remarked, trying to balance a salt-spoon
on the tip of his nose ; “ she’s a beast to me ,
but then she couldn’t do you any harm.”

Borradaile made a sudden resolve. He
placed the spoon on the table, and sitting
down drew the boy to his knee. He seemed
to have taken another character with his
tweeds and immaculate linen, and something
in his expression reduced Teddy to preter¬
natural gravity.

“ See here, Teddy, one man ought to help
another out of a fix ? ”

can harm your father, Teddy, or it wouldn’t
be fair to ask you—but I’m in danger. What
is your father’s name, by the way ? ”

“ Brooke, Captain Brooke.”

“ Ronald Brooke, of the —th ? ”

“ Yes; he’s not in the Army now. Do you
know him ? ”

Borradaile’s face had grown rigid and
stern. He half put the boy away from him.

“ I met him—once,” he said, in a strained,
hard voice that made Teddy tremble ; “ what
was your mother’s name ? ”

“Theodora,” Teddy spoke almost timidly ;
“ isn’t it pretty ? ”

But the listener was listening no longer.

“see here, teddy, one man ought to help another?”

Teddy nodded, his eyes fastened on the
handsome, haggard face near his own.

“ That’s what father said one day to Uncle
Jack, only he said a tight place. It’s the
same as a fix, perhaps ? ”

“ Exactly the same. Well, I’m in a tight
place, a very tight place, my boy, and you’re
the man to help me out of it.”

Teddy’s grey eyes darkened with pride : he
nodded.

“ Now,” resumed Borradaile, “I don’t want
anybody to know I’ve been here, not even
your father if you can help it, for a few days.
I’m afraid he’ll have to, though, on account
of his clothes. However, in a few hours I
hope to be with friends. It is nothing that

His thoughts had flown back over the space
of a decade, to the time when his life had
been bounded by a Theodora, the only girl
he ever loved. She would have been faithful
enough to the young lover whose wild oats
were so plentiful a crop, but Ronald Brooke
was rich and steady, even though he had the
temper of a devil, and Theodora’s constancy
was overruled.

He broke in upon his own thoughts by
taking Teddy’s face between his hands and
searching with hungry, longing eyes for a
trace of resemblance. Teddy wriggled
himself free. Borradaile rose to his feet
hurriedly.

“ I must go, Teddy. Do you mind post-

294

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

poning the somersault? I’m sorry, but I
have so far to go to-night. 5/

“ I don’t mind a bit about the somersault,
said Teddy, “ but I wish you hadn’t to go.
We’ve had such fun, haven’t we ? ”

Borradaile forced a smile. After all, what
had been fun to the boy might mean death
to him, and he could not agree very heartily.
He opened the window quietly.

“ Good-bye, Teddy,” he said ; “ I shall
never forget.”

But Teddy was fumbling in a corner of
the cupboard, and only nodded over his
shoulder in response. Borradaile made way
rapidly down the drive, and had reached
the gate, when he heard quick, pattering
footsteps hasten¬
ing after him.

It was Teddy,
out of breath. He
thrust something
into Borradaile’s
hand.

“ Here—I want
you—to take this
—you might be
short. W h e n
Uncle Jack’s in a
tight place — he
means he hasn’t
any money—and
I thought — you
mightn’t either.

It’s mine—every
bit, to do as I
like with.”

Teddy felt himself swung up into a pair
of strong arms and literally hugged, and in
his surprise at finding something wet upon
his cheek forgot to wish that his visitor’s face
had been less prickly.

He was glad he had remembered what a
tight place meant, but he stood for a moment
somewhat forlornly in the drive swallowing a
lump in his throat before turning to face
nurse’s probable scolding. What did he care
for a scolding, when he had helped another
man out of a tight place with his pillar-post
money-box ?

Geoffrey Borradaile had said he would not
forget, and he never did. Each year there

comes to Teddy
on a certain date
a red pillar-post
money - box con¬
taining a remem¬
brance, trifling at
first, but growing
in value year by
year.

And in the
sanctum of one
of the richest
Australian sheep
farmers, on a
bracket above his
easy-chair, stands
the original red
pillar-post, the
founder of his
fortunes.

IT WAS TEDDY, OUT OF HREATH. 1

From Behind the Speaker's Chair.

xli x.

(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)

MR. GLAD¬
STONE’S
MAIDEN
SPEECH.

WRITING in the August num¬
ber of The Strand about Mr.
Gladstone’s first speech in the
House of Commons, I quoted a
passage from a private letter,
drawn from him on perusal of Mr. McCarthy’s
preface to White’s “ Inner Life of the House
of Commons.” The historian of “ Our Own
Times ” asserted that the speech fell utterly
unnoticed. Mr. Gladstone, jealous for the
fame of the young member for Newark,
corrected this statement with the remark:
“ My maiden speech was noticed in debate
in a marked manner by
Mr. Stanley, who was in
charge of the Bill.”

Reading over again the
memoirs of the Earl of
Albemarle, published more
than twenty years ago, and
now forgotten, I came upon
a passage vividly illustrat¬
ing contemporary opinion
about this, now famous,
then, in the main, unevent¬
ful, epoch in Parliamentary
history.

“ One evening, on taking
my place,” Lord Albemarle
writes, “ I found on his legs
a beardless youth, with
whose appearance and man
ner I was greatly struck.

He had an earnest, intelli¬
gent countenance, and
large, expressive, black eyes.

Young as he was he had
evidently what is called
‘ the ear of the House,’
and yet the cause he advocated was not
one likely to interest a popular assembly—
that of the Planter versus the Slave. I had
placed myself behind the Treasury Bench.

4 Who is he ? ’ I asked one of the Ministers.
I was answered, ‘ He is the member for
Newark—a young fellow who will some day
make a great figure in Parliament.’ My
informant was Edward Geoffrey Stanley, then
Whig Secretary for the Colonies, and in charge
of the Negro Emancipation Bill, afterwards
Earl of Derby. The young Conservative
orator was William Ewart Gladstone—two
statesmen who each subsequently became
Prime Minister and Leader of the Party to

which he
opposed.”

was at this time diametrically

A CON¬
SECRATED
ERROR.

AN EARLY APPEARANCE IN THE PARLIA¬
MENTARY RING.

It is curious to note that
Mr. Gladstone, adopting Mr.
McCarthy’s version, long current
without question, speaks of this
discourse as “my maiden speech.” It was,
as contemporary records show, so accepted
by the House. As a matter of fact, sup¬
ported by the irrefragable testimony of the
Mirror of Parliament , his first speech was
delivered on the 21st of February, 1833, the
subject being the alleged discreditable state
of things in Liverpool at
Parliamentary and munici¬
pal elections. The speech
of the 3rd of June in the
same Session, to which
Mr. McCarthy alludes, was
delivered in Committee,
upon consideration of
resolutions submitted by
Stanley, Colonial Secretary,
as a preliminary to the
emancipation of the West
Indian slaves.

On turning back to the
Hansard of the day, Mr.
Gladstone’s recollection of
the Ministerial compliment
is fully justified. Evidently
it made a deep impression
on the mind of the young
member, remaining with
him for more than sixty
years. “ If the hon. gentle¬
man will permit me to
make the observation,” said
the Colonial Secretary, “ I
beg to say I never listened with greater
pleasure to any speech than I did to
the speech of the hon. member for Newark,
who then addressed the House, I believe,
for the first time. He brought forward his
case and argued it with a temper, an ability,
and a fairness which may well be cited
as a good model to many older members
of this House, and which hold out to this
House and to the country grounds of con¬
fident expectation that, whatever cause shall
have the good fortune of his advocacy, will
derive from it great support.”

It will be observed that the Minister spoke
without contradiction of Mr. Gladstone’s

296

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

HATS OFF.

speech as his first appearance on the Parlia¬
mentary scene, a circumstance which probably
did much to crystallize the error.

Last month when the Speaker,
having as he observed “ for
greater accuracy ” obtained a
copy of the Queen’s Speech,
read it from the Chair, members with
few exceptions uncovered, sitting bare¬
headed whilst the Speaker lent to the bald
sentences the music of his voice. In the
heyday of Irish obstruction the Parnellites
were wont to assert their national inde¬
pendence by stubbornly keeping their hats
on whilst the Saxon on these occasions bared
his aggressively loyal brow. This contumacy
excited profound indignation among British
members, suffusing a corresponding gleam of
satisfaction over the ex¬
pressive countenance of
Mr. Joseph Gillis Biggar
and his colleagues from
Ireland.

The member for Cavan
would turn in his grave
with mortification if he
only knew—perhaps by
this time he has learned
—that in this designedly
overt breach of order
and decorum the Irish
members were right, the
loyal Saxons being in
error. The rule which
governs the House in
these matters is that
when the Sovereign—
as in case of a reply to
an address — dispatches
a message personally
and directly to the Commons, they sit
uncovered to hear it read. But the reading
by the Speaker of the Queen’s Speech does
not constitute the delivery of a message
direct from Her Majesty to the Commons.
As a matter of fact, the Speech is addressed
to Lords and Commons collectively, with
one paragraph exclusively addressed to the
Commons. The message they receive stand¬
ing at the Bar of the House of Lords.

In earlier Parliamentary times, when
there were no special editions of evening
papers forthcoming with verbatim reports of
the Speech from the Throne, it was found a
matter of convenience for the Speaker to
read the document for the edification of
those who had not been able to attend the
ceremony in the other House. The custom,
like many others that have become ana¬

PICTURES
IN AN OLD
PARLIA¬
MENT.

A GLEAM OF SATISFACTION ON MR. BIGGAR S
FACE.

chronisms, is still observed. But it does
not import the necessity of removing the hat.
Last Session note was taken in one of the
newspapers of the fact that Sir Henry
Campbell Bannerman kept on his hat whilst
the Queen’s Speech was read from the Chair.
He was strictly following the manner of the
vieille ecole , observing a custom common
when he first entered the House.

More than a hundred years ago
a young Prussian clergyman,
Moritz by name, visited this
country, travelling on foot from
London through Oxford as far
north as Derby and home by Nottingham.
He described his impressions in a series of
homely letters written to a friend. The book
found modest publication, appearing in this
country in a slim volume
bearing date 1795.
Moritz visited the House
of Commons, and in his
quiet, matter-of-fact way
paints the scene in which
Pitt, Fox, and Burke
loomed large.

“ Passing through
Westminster Hall,” he
reports, “ you ascend a
few steps at the end,
and are led through a
dark passage into the
House of Commons.”
Westminster Hall re¬
mains to-day as it was
when the quiet - man -
nered, observant Prus¬
sian passed through it.
The steps at the end
are there* but the House
of Commons, to which he presently ob¬
tained entrance, was, more than half a cen¬
tury later, burned to the ground. Entrance
to the Strangers’ Gallery in those days was
approached, as it is now, by a small stair¬
case.

“The first time I went up this small stair¬
case,” says the ingenuous visitor, “and had
reached ihe rails, I saw a very genteel man in
black standing there. I accosted him without
any introduction, and I asked him whether I
might be allowed to go into the gallery.
He told me that I must be introduced, by a
member, or else I could not get admission
there. Now, as I had not the honour to be
acquainted with a member, I was under the
mortifying necessity of retreating and again
going downstairs, as I did much chagrined.
And now, as I was sullenly marching back,

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER’S CHAIR.

297

M.P., OI.DEN TIME.

I heard something said about a bottle of
wine which seemed to be addressed to me.
I could not conceive what it could mean till
I got home, when my obliging landlady told
me I should have given the well-dressed man
half a crown or a couple of shillings for a
bottle of wine. Happy in this information,
I went again the next day; when the same
man who before had sent me away, after I
had given him only two shillings very politely
opened the door for me, and himself recom¬
mended me to a good seat in the
gallery.”

Strangers visiting the House of
Commons will know how far we
have advanced beyond the level of
morality here indi¬
cated.

Mr. Moritz found
the House of Com¬
mons “ rather a mean¬
looking building, not
a little resembling a
chapel. The Speaker,
an elderly man with
an enormous wig with
two knotted kind of
tresses, or curls, be¬
hind, in a black cloak,
his hat on his head,
sat opposite to me on a lofty chair.” The
Speaker of the House of Commons long
ago removed his hat, which in modern Parlia¬
mentary proceedings appears only when he
produces it from an unsuspected recess
and uses it pointing to members when he
counts the Plouse. “The members of the
House of Commons,” he notes, “ have
nothing particular in their
dress. They even come
into the House in their
great-coats with boots and
spurs,” which to-day would
be thought a something
very particular indeed. “ It
is not at all uncommon
to see a member lying
stretched out on one of
the benches whilst others
are debating. Some crack
nuts, others eat oranges, or
whatever else is in season.”

We have changed all
that. During the all-night
sittings in the heyday of
the Land League Party an
Irish member brought a
paper bag of buns with
him, and proceeded to

generally.

Vol. xvii.—38.

refresh himself in the intervals of speech¬
making. This outrage on the Constitution
was swiftly and sternly rebuked from the
Chair, and was never repeated. Another old-
world custom of the House noted by the
stranger who looked down from the gallery
a hundred and seven¬
teen years ago was that
members addressing
their remarks to the
Speaker prefaced
them, as they do at
this day, with the
observation “Sir.”
“The Speaker on
being thus addressed
generally moves his
hat a little, but im¬
mediately puts it on
again.” The Speaker
not now wearing a
hat cannot observe
this courteous custom.
But it exists to this
day among members
A member referred
to by another in the course of
his speech always lifts his hat,
in recognition of the attention,
complimentary or otherwise.

In the House of Lords, more conservative
of old customs than the Commons, the Lord
Chancellor is upon certain occasions seen of
men with a three-cornered hat crowning his
full-bottomed wig. This happens when new
peers take the oath and their seat. As the
new peer is conducted on his quaint peregrin¬
ation and salutes the Lord Chancellor from
the Barons’ or Earls’ bench,
to which he has been in¬
ducted, the Lord Chancel¬
lor responds by thrice
gravely uplifting his three-
cornered hat. Another
time when he wears his
hat in the House is when
acting with other Royal
Commissioners at the open¬
ing of Parliament, at its
Prorogation, or at the
giving the Royal Assent
to Bills.

The Prussian
chanced to visit
the House on
the historic
when proposal
was made for doing honour
to Admiral Rodney, the

CHARLES

JAMES

FOX.

occasion

CHARLES JAMES FOX.
(From an Old Portrait.)

298

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

gallant victor at Cape St. Vincent. “ Fox,”
Mr. Moritz reports, “was sitting to the
right of the Speaker, not far from the
table on which the gilt sceptre lay. He
now took his place so near it that he
could reach it with his hand and, thus
placed, he gave it many a violent and
hearty thump, either to aid or to show
the energy with which he spoke. It is im¬
possible for me to describe with what fire
and persuasive eloquence he spoke, and
how the Speaker in the Chair incessantly
nodded approbation from beneath his solemn
wig. Innumerable voices incessantly called
out, 1 Hear him ! hear him ! 5 and when there
was the least sign that he intended to leave
off speaking they no less vociferously ex¬
claimed ‘ Go on. 5 And so he continued to
speak in this manner for nearly two hours. 55

“ Charles Fox,” writes this precursor of
“ Pictures in Parliament, 55 “ is a short, fat, and
gross man, with a swarthy complexion, and
dark; and in general he is badly dressed.
There certainly is something Jewish in his
looks. But upon the whole he is not an ill-
made, nor an ill-looking, man, and there are
strong marks of sagacity and fire in his eyes.
Burke is a well-made, tall, upright man, but
looks elderly and broken. Rigby is exces¬
sively corpulent, and has a jolly, rubicund
face.”

, This command of the Speaker
1 to - day precedes every divi¬

sion in the House of Commons.
But it is peremptory only

with the few otherwise
favoured strangers who
have obtained seats be¬
neath the gallery. The
reason for this is obvious.

Being actually on the floor
of the House, they might,
by accident or design, stray
into the division lobby,
leading to grievous com¬
plications in the voting.

Mr. Moritz makes the

interesting note that w T hen
the division on the Rod¬
ney vote was pending,
members, turning their
faces towards the gallery,
called aloud, “ Withdraw^ !

Withdraw 1 55 “On this,”
he w r rites, “ the strangers
withdraw', and are shut up in a small room
at the foot of the stairs till the voting is
over, wdien they are again permitted to take
their places in the gallery.”

REPORTERS,
IN THE
HOUSE.

“STRANGERS,
WILL WITH¬
DRAW. 53

In our time, strangers in the gallery,
despite the order to withdraw, retain their
seats. Only those w'ho, with pride of port,
have been conducted to the special seats
under the gallery are marched out, con¬
ducted across the lobby, and left outside the
locked doors till the division is over.
According to Mr. Moritz’s testimony, the
Strangers 5 Galleries were not exclusively
allotted to men, ladies mingling in the
closely-packed company. The old House of
Commons had no Ladies 5 Gallery, though in
addition to permission to enter the ordinary
Strangers 5 Gallery, ladies w r ere admitted to a
sort of cage in the roof, railed off from the
aperture provided for the escape of hot air
generated by the candles. It w T as from this
place that Mr. Gladstone, in his first Session
of the House of Commons, saw' a fan flutter
down in the middle of an important debate.

There w r as, of course, no such
thing as a Press Gallery in the
days before the earlier Revolu¬
tion in France. “ Two shorthand
winters,” says the stranger in the gallery,
whose quick glance nothing escapes, “have
sat sometimes not far distant from me, w r ho,
though it is rather by stealth, endeavour to
take down the w'ords of the speaker. Thus
all that is very remarkable in w'hat is said in
Parliament may generally be read in print
the next day.”

Dr. Johnson often sat in this gallery,
though 'he did not use shorthand in reporting
the speeches. The omission w r ould doubtless
be to the advantage of
some speakers. Mr. Moritz
heard that those in con¬
stant attendance with the
object of reporting- the
debates paid the door¬
keeper a guinea for the
privilege of the Session.
The fee w r as paid in
advance.

There w r as no Strangers 5
Gallery in the House of
Peers at that time, but
the irresistible Prussian
seems to have gained
admission. He wTites :
“ There appears to be
much more politeness and
more courteous behaviour
with the members of the
Upper House. But he who washes to observe
mankind and to contemplate the leading
traits of the different characters most
strongly marked, wall do well to attend

DR. JOHNSON WATCHING PARLIAMENT.

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR.

2 99

frequently the lower rather than the upper
House.” Those familiar with both Houses
of Parliament will know how admirably this
shrewd advice pertains to the present day.

The Session is already three
baron weeks old, but the lobby has
“ ferdy.” not yet lost a certain sense of
desolateness since Baron Ferdy
Rothschild comes not any more. He was
not, in the ordinary sense of the term, a
Parliamentary figure. I have no recollection
of hearing him make a speech.

He was not given to sitting
up late at night in order to
save the State or (the same
thing) serve his party. But
he was a man of wide human
sympathies, and the Plouse
of Commons, microsm of
humanity, irresistibly attracted
him.

His habit of an afternoon
was to enter tlie lobby, gener¬
ally after questions were over.

With one hand in his pocket,
and a smile on his face, he
made straightway for a friend,
standing in an accustomed
spot by the doorkeeper’s chair,
and “ wanted to know ” every¬
thing that had happened since
the House met, and what was
going on next. Baron Ferdy,
otherwise a distinct individu¬
ality in his notable family,
had, in marked degree, their
characteristic of . acquiring
information. He always
“ wanted to know.” This
habitude was indicative of the universality of
his sympathy. He was one of the most
unaffectedly kind-hearted men I ever knew.
Looking in upon him one morning in his
study at Waddesdon, I found him seated
before two heaps of opened letters, one very
much smaller than the other. “ All begging
letters,” he said, glancing, with a faint smile,
towards the larger bundle.

Undeterred by their predominance and
persistency, Baron Ferdy had, in accordance
with his custom, spent an early hour of the
morning in going through them himself,
fearful lest he might miss a genuine case of
distress that he could alleviate.

WAV c It was not money only he be-
of stowed. Out of its abundance
a c h ec l ue more or less was no¬
thing. More self-sacrificing, he
gave time and personal attention, not shrink¬

BARON FERDY.

ing from putting himself under a personal
obligation in order to assist someone who
really had no claim upon him. The longest
letter I ever had from him begged me to
obtain an appointment on the London Press
for a country journalist. He followed it
up with renewed personal applications, im¬
patiently treating my plea that, there being
no vacancy within my knowledge, it would
not be possible violently to supersede any
one of the leading contributors to London
journals in order to make room
for his protege . Judging from
the ardour of the pursuit, I
concluded the gentleman in
question must in some way
be closely connected with the
Baron or his establishment.
On inquiry I found he had
never seen him—knew nothing
about him save particulars set
forth in a letter the youth had
written to him. It was the
old story of unrest and yearn¬
ing ambition, familiar to all
of us who have served on the
treadmill of the Press. It
was new to Baron Ferdy. It
touched his kind heart, and
he espoused the youth’s cause
with fervour that could not
have been excelled had he
been a kinsman.

Another of his
quiet kindnesses,
of which I had
personal know¬
ledge, befell on the day of
the wedding of the Duchess
of York. He had invited a few friends to
view the scene from the balcony of his
mansion in Piccadilly. The crowd at this
favoured spot, commanding the debonchemeni
from Constitution Hill, was enormous. The
day was intensely hot, men and women faint¬
ing in the crowd, gasping for water. Baron
Ferdy, observing this from the balcony,
ran downstairs, ordered the servants to
bring buckets of fresh water into the
barricaded space before the house, and
stationed two of them in a position over¬
looking the barricade, whence they could
hand down tumblers of water to the thirsty
and grateful crowd. Last year but one, on
the occasion of the Queen’s Golden Jubilee,
Baron Ferdy, never neglectful of opportunity
to do a kindness, made, in advance, pre¬
parations for relieving the discomfort of
the crowd at his gates. Finding in the

" A CUP
OF

WATER.”

3 °°

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

course of the day that the police on duty
had had nothing to eat since they turned
out in the morning, he, as soon as the
business of the day was over, sent out
into the highways and by-ways, and com¬
pelled the not unwilling police to come
in and partake of the sumptuous banquet
he had prepared by way of luncheon for his
personal friends, watching the scene from
the balcony.

These are but trifling things. I tell them
as happening to have come under my
personal observation. They are indicative
of the sweetness of Baron Ferdy’s nature,
the boundless charity of his disposition.
The catalogue would be indefi¬
nitely extended if everyone
who knew him were to con¬
tribute his item. The House
of Commons could better have
spared a more prominent politi¬
cian, a more frequent con¬
tributor to its daily debates.

It w r ould be inter-

of Scotland, notwithstanding of this treaty.”
At the beginning of the century the office
with the salary, being a marketable com¬
modity, was acquired by one Sir Patrick
Walker, who, with nice precision, paid a sum
equivalent to thirty-one and a quarter years’
purchase. The office and, what is much
more important, the salary finally came into
the possession of the Dean and Chapter of the
Episcopal Cathedral of St. Mary’s, Edinburgh.
Mr. Hanbury, wffio, in his capacity of Finan¬
cial Secretary to the Treasury, has a keen
scent for these ancient jobs, has concluded a
transaction for the computation of the salary.
The Dean and Chapter of the Cathedral of

THE

HERITABLE

USHER OF

esting to know
^whether, in all re¬
spects, Scotland

SCOTLAND. stanc j s w h ere it did

since the salary of its Heritable
Usher is no longer carried on
the books of the Consolidated
Fund. What were precisely the
duties of the Heritable Usher
is not known. Long ago the inheritor did
his last ushering, his heirs selling for a con¬
siderable mess of pottage the salary per¬
taining to the office. It was created in the
year 1393, and by solemn Act of the Parlia¬
ment of Scotland was conferred upon Alex¬
ander Cockburn, of Langton, and his heirs.
Subsequent Acts of the Scottish Parliament,
passed in 1681 and 1686, confirmed the
original grant, the latter Act attaching a
salary of ^250 a year to the office. When
the union of England and Scotland was
effected the Heritable Usher, with many
similar useful persons, was established in
possession of his dignity and emoluments by
a special clause in the Treaty of Union
providing that “all heritable offices, superi¬
orities, etc., being reserved to the owners
thereof as rights of property in the same
manner as they are now enjoyed by the laws

A KEEN SCENT FOR JOBS (MR. HANBURY).

St. Mary’s will pouch a trifle under .£7,000,
and the Heritable Usher of Scotland will be
ushered into final obscurity.

It will be a nice task for any boy home for
the holidays to reckon up with compound
interest what the Heritable Usher of Scotland
has cost Great Britain since he stepped on
the scene in the year of Our Lord 1393.

This transaction has been con-
flodden ducted in pursuance of a
field. Treasury Minute founded upon
the report of a Rouse of
Commons’ Committee which met twelve
years ago to consider the subject of per¬
petual pensions. They recommend that
holders of pension allowances or payments
which the Law Officers of the Crown con¬
sider to be permanent in character, but to
which no obligation of an onerous kind
attaches, should be invited to commute.

A nimal A dualities.

, ™ Q A~P U \ e artules consts ‘ °f a series °f perfectly authentic anecdotes of animal life, illustrated
by Mr. f. A. Shepherd , an artist long a favourite with readers of The Strand Magazine. We shall
be glad to receive similar anecdotes , fully authenticated by names of witnesses , for use in future numbers.
While the stories themselves will be matters of fact , it must be understood that the artist will treat the
subject ■ with freedom and fancy, more with a view to an amusing commentary than to a mere repre¬
sentation of the occurrence. r

XI.

HIS is a tale of shameful persecu¬
tion of the Metropolitan police
by a lawless gander and his
abetting wives.

In New Road, Mile End, there
was a dairy where poultry was kept. Most
eminent among this poultry, and chiefly
notorious in the neighbourhood, were a
gander and four geese. The gander was a
large and athletic bird, great in enterprise
and immensely venerated by his consorts.
It was the way of the troop to form a solemn
procession which perambulated the New
Road in ponderous state, seeking what or
whom it might devour, and during these
expeditions the outdoor life of Mile End
never lacked for humorous incident. For
some time the family enterprise was chiefly
directed toward the maltster’s opposite the

dairy, and the constant procession of the
dignified gander, followed in single file by
his harem, strictly in order of precedence,
toward the grain-sacks, and the equally con¬
stant retreat of the lot, as fast as they could
go, with quacks of injured dignity and no
order at all, when repelled by the maltster’s
men, brightened the faces of the passers-by
and filled the humorous souls of Mile End
boys with gladness. For the gander was
apt to be aggressive, his wives followed
his example, and the maltster’s men dis¬
approved.

Persistently repelled from the grain-sacks,
the gander and his ladies began a stately
parade of the streets. There are area-gratings
flush with the pavement in the New Road,
and one day it occurred to somebody in an
area to thrust a crust between the bars. The

3° 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

gander absorbed the crust, but the signifi¬
cance of the hint was absorbed in equal
quantities by the entire cortege, and the next
morning the same area was decorated with
the same fringe of geese, who declined to

biscuit as he went. There were a few
loose crumbs and pieces in his hand,
and in an evil moment he caught sight
of the birds. Little suspecting what would
be the terrible consequences to the Force,

THE BEGINNING OF IT.

leave till yesterday’s dose had been repeated.
Then they tried every grating in the street in
succession, and before long had succeeded in
levying a sort of area-tax on the suffering
ratepayers of Mile End, returning home after
every collection heavily laden, waddling, but
preposterously dignified as ever, a source of
joy to any onlooker capable of laughter.

But one day a policeman passed on his
beat—a policeman whose notions of official
dignity did not prevent him munching a

that unlucky policeman bestowed the broken
pieces on the gander and his consorts, and
went placidly on his beat, unconscious of ill.
Mr. Ward, of 67, New Road, had observed
this from his window, and saw also the hor¬
rible sequel. For on the following day that
policeman passed again (but this time with
no biscuits), and the geese knew him, and
rushed at him with outstretched necks,
flapping wings, and wild screeches. And
not at this policeman alone, but at every

THE FATAL STEP.

ANIMAL ACTUALITIES. '

3°3

THE SERGEANT.

other policeman who ventured to perform
his duty in New Road, Mile End. Words
cannot express the terrific scene when a
more than usually ponderously-important
sergeant was mobbed by this subversive
gang. They came at him with yells and
flaps, and waited expectantly about him.
The sergeant took no notice, but walked on,
even more vastly magnificent than before.
And behind him, in single file, came the
geese, solemn and dignified, too, in their own
way. This wouldn’t do. An important

the creatures away; whereat they gave a
simultaneous quack and grew more eager.
That wouldn’t do, either" The sergeant
turned to walk on, and instantly the geese
lined up behind him again, and the pageant
recommenced. It was very awkward. "The
sergeant stopped, and the geese made an
expectant, long-necked circle about him,
quacking indignantly at this delay in pro¬
ducing the desired biscuits. The sergeant
looked abstiactedly at the house-chimneys,
folded his hands as though about to begin a

sergeant of police, stalking first in a pro¬
cession the other members of which were a
large gander and his four wives in order of
seniority, was an object inconsistent with the
dignity of the Force. So he turned to drive

long period of meditation, did everything he
could think of to suggest to the minds of
his persecutors that they had drawn him
blank, and had best go away. Not they, how¬
ever. The longer they waited, the more im-

304

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

BESET.

portunate they grew, and, when the unhappy
sergeant made to move on, the procession
formed again ! A small crowd had collected,
and it soon occurred to some small boy to
yell “ Who stole the goose ? ” And so the
poor victim was harried the length of two
long and derisive streets, till someone came
from the dairy and drove the birds back.

It was a terrible affliction, and not this
sergeant alone, but every policeman who

ventured into New Road in uniform was
an equal sufferer. People in the interiors
of their houses heard a burst of quacks
and flaps, and said one to another, “ Here
comes a policeman.” Nothing could rid the
Force of the terror, and the cause of law and
order seemed in a fair way to be wholly
overset. Till at last urgent representations
from the police-station led to the confinement
of the birds within the dairy-yard.

i675-

AVALANCI DA SALO was
one day in his workshop oppo¬
site the old Palace of the
Podesta in Brescia. On the
shelves around were numerous
examples of his work, their
rich gold varnish, for which he was after¬
wards so famous, glistening in the sunlight.
But Cavalanci sat on a bench disconsolate.

“ Diavolo,” he at length exclaimed, letting
a half-purfled scroll fall unheeded from his
hand, “ is this to be the end of Brescian
dreams ? Here is music lying dead, enough
to charm the ears of half Italy, and yet,
forsooth, he who wants viol or violin must
needs hasten to Cremona for the imitations
of the Amanti, Guarneri, or of Antonio
Stradivari. Times are indeed changed that I,
Gasparo’s grandson, must offer my work and
find no purchasers, unless it be the mounte¬
banks of the village fairs. Truly, I pay
dearly for a father’s folly. Instead of roam¬
ing Western seas, why stayed he not at home
to earn the mantle which fell on Maggini’s
shoulders, from whom I had to learn all a
father should have taught? And his son
Carlo, in like manner, is content to merce
flimsy silk rather than pursue immortal work.
We are ingrates here, while in Cremona
loyalty, at any rate, thrives,, and son succeeds
father to Brescian hurt.”

Then he rose and paced the room savagely,
kicking what tools or wood fell in his way.

Vol. xvii.—39.

“But what mends it,” he muttered,
“ mouthing of fallen hopes ? Present claims
are more urgent. Sixteen lire were due to
Carlo for rent more than a month ago. His
grace expires to-morrow, and well I know no
memories of the past will stay his hand. My
stock and tools alone are worth a hundred
lire ; therefore old Tubal would give me ten.
Perchance I might haggle the whole sixteen,
and then—Corpo di Bacco, that .it should
come to this !—Gasparo’s grandson an out¬
cast, while Guarneri and Stradivari, base
copiers, flourish ! By all that is unholy, I
swear I’d sell my soul to the Evil One himself
could I but outdo them in fame.”

There was a blinding flash of lightning,
followed by a fearful thunder-peal, and then,
sulphurous darkness filled the shop. When
light came Cavalanci was conscious of the
presence of another. He half-hoped, half-
dreaded, to see the Devil on whom he had
so impiously called—but it was seemingly
only a chance customer. Yet it was after¬
wards said that he was something more, for
Cavalanci paid his rent next day, the fame
of his instruments increased forthwith, and
he died a rich, though not a happy, man.

1875.

“ Dear Sir,”— the letter ran, —“ We are
instructed by Messrs. Ware and Foster, execu¬
tors under the will of the late Mr. Josephus
Wilson, to intimate to you that the testator
bequeathed to you his violin. We are send-

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

3°6

ing it you by special messenger herewith,
and will thank you to sign inclosed acknow¬
ledgment of receipt.

“ Yours respectfully,

“ Danes and Danes.”

I handed the letter to Dawson.

“ Well, I’ve heard of heaping coals of fire
on your enemy’s head,” he remarked, when
he had read it, “ but I never came across
such a remarkable instance of the operation
as this. Are you going to take it ? ”

“ Why not ? I will accept it as the peace¬
offering for which it was obviously intended.
As a matter of fact, a post-mortem recon¬
ciliation was the only
one I would have
agreed to. Yes, cer¬
tainly I will take it.”

So I signed the
receipt and accepted
the bequest.

I undid the parcel
and took the violin
from its battered case.

“ Why, it’s as yellow
as a guinea,” I ex¬
claimed, in surprise;

I had never seen such
a light one.

“ Wilson was un¬
commonly proud of
the colour,” said Daw¬
son, “ and he was
simply infatuated with
the instrument. Lat¬
terly they couldn’t
tear him away from
it. He never would
play it before any¬
one, though. That
was another of his
cranks. He used to
shut himself up with
it all day long, and
play both it and the
piano simultaneously.”

I expressed my
doubts as to this pos¬
sibility.

“ At any rate, Wil¬
son did it: I’ve heard
him myself, though I
never actually saw the
operation.” Saying which, Dawson sat
down on the stool and resumed the inter¬
rupted nocturne.

Then a remarkable thing happened. He
had not played half-a-dozen chords before
a long-drawn-out note came from the violin

I was still fingering. I nearly dropped it in
my amazement.

“ Here, stop that,” said Dawson, wheeling
round.

“ I did not touch a string. It made that
noise of itself.”

“ Humbug ! Don’t do it again, that’s all,”
he replied, snappishly, resuming his inter¬
rupted piece.

Again, as he struck the keyboard, the
violin sounded. Without stopping Dawson
turned his head, and when he saw me a
couple of yards away from the violin, his
expression of annoyance changed to one
of open-eyed amaze¬
ment, for he was still
playing the piano, and
the notes that con¬
tinued to proceed
from the violin were
in harmony with his
piece.

He stopped sud¬
denly, and with him
the violin.

“ Did you hear
that ? ” he asked, in
a scared voice.

I was too much
astonished to reply,
and we both stared
at the instrument for
some minutes in abso¬
lute silence.

“ It’s a sympathetic
fiddle,” I said, at
length, for the mere
sake of saying some¬
thing.

“It seems a bit
that way,” replied
Dawson, drily ; “ but
I never heard one so
sympathetic as all
that.”

He turned round
to the piano and com¬
menced afresh, and
again the violin joined
in. This time Dawson
did not stop, and the
duet continued in
absolute harmony.

I bent over the instrument. The varnish
seemed brighter than before. The sun
glinted topaz lights upon it, with changing
gleams of purple and brown; the strings
quivered as though touched by an unseen
bow. I felt a cold shiver run down my

“ I UNDID THE PARCEL AND TOOK THE VIOLIN
FROM ITS CASE.”

CAVALANCrS CURSE.

3°7

spine as I watched ; it was altogether too
uncanny.

The piano stopped: simultaneously the
violin. Dawson wheeled round and gazed
at it.

“ Well, of all the extraordinary things ! ” he
ejaculated. “ What on earth does it mean ? ”

“ Let’s see if it will follow me,” I said,
irrelevantly, taking his seat.

Once I learnt to play on the piano, and I
still remember the treble of two tunes—
“ Haydn’s Surprise ” and “ God bless the
Prince of Wales.” I played the first, but
the violin remained impassive. Maybe the
bass I improvised puzzled it: at any rate, it
did not join in. Then I tried the second
air, and with no better success. Then

Dawson played with his right hand only, and
it struck in at once.

“ It isn’t particularly respectful to its

owner,” I remarked. “ It seems to me,
Dawson, this fiddle
has taken an alto¬
gether unnecessary
liking for you. Wil¬
son should have

left it to you

instead.”

“ If you want to
part with it I shall
be glad to offer it
a home,” said Daw¬
son with what ap-
peared to me
indelicate haste.

“You can take
it away now, Daw¬
son,” I rejoined.

“ I want no unwil¬
ling visitor here.”

He seemed
singularly pleased
with the present,
and he left me that
evening with the
fiddle-case in his
hand.

Immediat ely
after this I made
a long foreign tour,
and it was nearly
twelve months
before I saw him again. I wrote advising
him of my return, and asked him to look me
up, but as he neither did so nor wrote, I
called upon him.

He lived in rooms in Bloomsbury. The
servant told me he was in, but added that
she did not think he would see me.

“ Is he ill ? ” I asked.

“No, sir, but he’s playing; and he won’t
ever see anyone then.”

This was a new development in his
character. Telling the servant it would be
all right, I made my way upstairs.

Yes, Dawson was undoubtedly playing,
and someone was helping him, for there were
piano and violin.

I tapped and then turned the handle, but
the door was locked. I knocked loudly and
called to Dawson to open it.

There was a moment’s pause—or rather
the piano stopped, but the violin went on.

“ Who’s there ? ” shouted Dawson, in a
peevish voice.

“ Saunders ! ”

“Wait a minute,” was the curt reply ; and
on the piano galloped as if to overtake its
companion. I don’t think it accomplished
this, for the violin shrieked as if in anger at
the delay, and the
piano rushed on
blindly and apolo¬
getically. Then in
a fierce crescendo
of disgust the fiddle
ceased. The piano
put on the brake,
slowed down, and
stopped.

The door opened
and Dawson bade
me enter. He was
alone.

“ Where’s your
friend ? ” I asked ;
and then, catching
sight of a yellow
violin on the table,
I suddenly remem¬
bered : I had just
been listening to
another duet be¬
tween Dawson and
my self-acting
legacy.

Dawson made
no reply, but sank
into a chair and
wiped the perspira¬
tion from his face
with trembling hands. He seemed altogether
out of condition.

“ What’s the matter, old man ? ” I asked.
“You don’t seem well.”

Dawson gloomily pointed to the fiddle.

“ That’s what’s the matter,” he replied, with
a ghastly smile.

what’s the matter, old man?

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

3°S

“ What, my sympathetic fiddle ? You
don’t mean to say you’ve had too much of it
already ? I'll take it back if you don’t like
it. 5 ’

“ You can’t take it back. It’s a Cavalanci.”

“ Well, it won’t bite, will it ? ”

“ When a man once gets a Cavalanci and
plays to it, it sticks to him like the Old Man
of the Sea, and no power on earth can take
it away from him,’’ said Dawson, senten-
tiously.

“ Humbug ! ”

“ Look at the wreck I am,” he replied.

“ There’s no humbug about that, is there ?
And I’ve only the Cavalanci to thank for it.”

“You do look bad,” I admitted. “But
tell me all about it. What do you mean by
a Cavalanci ? ”

Dawson leaned back in his chair and gazed
at the ceiling.

“ Cavalanci,” said he, slowly, “ was a com¬
petitor of Stradivarius, and he determined to
outshine his rival. According to the legend,
which I for one now implicitly believe, he
sold his soul to the Devil to gain his ends.
His instruments became all the rage, till it
was found that their owners invariably
went mad, as I am going. Then the
demand ceased and bonfires were made of
them whenever possible. I have learnt that
there are only four extant now, and this
cursed thing is one of them.”

“ Why not burn that as well, if it annoys
you ? ”

“ I dare not. Its owner can only destroy
his Cavalanci on his death - bed. Wilson
could have done it, but as he owed you a
grudge he passed it on to you instead.
Would to Heaven you’d been the first to play
in its diabolic presence.”

“ I’ll destroy it, if you won’t,” I said. I
grabbed at it, and was about to break it
across my knee when Dawson sprang forward
with a terrible cry.

“No, no, Saunders. You’d kill me if you
did it.” He caught the instrument in his
hands and huddled it to him as if it were a
child.

It was a painful spectacle. I watched him
pityingly.

“Saunders,” he said, at length, “you don’t
know what a time of it I’ve had since I got
hold of this infernal thing.”

“ You seemed pleased enough to get it at
the time.”

“ And so I was. It seemed scarcely
credible, but as I played with the thing in
your room, an overwhelming desire for
possession came over me, I pretty well

asked for it, and if you had refused to give
it me, I think I should have taken it by main
force. I simply craved for that fiddle.”

“Then if you wanted it so badly, why
does its possession worry you ? ”

“Because, Saunders, it makes my life a
perfect misery. Man, I’m its slave. It takes
the lead now. When it wishes to play—and
it is always wishing it—I have to accompany
it wherever I am. Distance makes no
difference, and I have to play till it is
satisfied. I found that out about a week after
I got it. 1 was at the Venables’. In the
middle of dinner 1 felt a terrible longing
stealing over me. I wanted to play. I tried
to control myself, but play I must or go mad.
Scarcely apologizing, I left the table, ran into
the drawing-room, and sat down at the piano.

I don’t know what I played, but the moment
my fingers touched the keys I was filled with
a feeling of content and delight. I was still
playing when the ladies entered. Mrs.
Venables must have thought me mad, for I
did not stop. She sent for her husband, who
came and asked me to return to the table. I
nodded to him and went on. Suddenly my
feelings changed, and I was only aware that
I was making a terrible fool of myself. The
full force of my social enormity fell upon
me, and, livid with confusion, I made some
incoherent apology and fled from the house.

“ From that night my reputation for
eccentricity was firmly established, and I
have added to it from time to time, for I am
never safe, and can go nowhere without the
danger of a similar occurrence. The follow¬
ing Sunday I went to the Wilmers’. There
were plenty of delightful people there, and for
a time I forgot my wretched position. Sud¬
denly the same mad impulse came over me.
There was a long-haired German at the piano,
but it didn’t matter. I flicked him off the
stool, and, surrounded by a gaping crowd,
went through Heaven knows what composi¬
tion. But I did not care : I was happy.
Then when my master was satisfied again the
terrible awakening came, and I flung myself
out of the room like a madman—they all
thought 1 was. It’s just fiendish, Saunders.
I rarely can go anywhere without making a
fool of myself. It’s just maddening to think
of the ignominy of it all.”

“ But, my dear chap, why don’t you lose
it ? Put it in an express train, with a ficti¬
tious address, and wash your hands of it.”

“I’ve tried it,” said Dawson, wearily.
“ Before I knew all I have since learnt from
bitter experience, I packed it off by P. and O.
boat, addressed to the Grand Llama of

CAVALANCPS CURSE.

3°9

“ I FLICKED HIM OFF THE STOOL.

Tibet. I thought he might be able to deal
with it if he ever got it. I suffered agonies
from the separation, and it must have been
very lively on the journey. For I had to
play to it just the same. And then, after
all, it came back to me marked ‘Gone—
Left no address,’ and I don’t know what
I hadn’t to pay for carriage. How they
found out the sender, goodness only knows.
I have left it in trains, but it 7 iever fails to
come back, and I have always suffered
during its absence. I took it to a pawnshop
and destroyed the ticket, but the yearning
for it was so fearful I had to get it out by
making a false declaration about the ticket
before a magistrate. I can’t bear to be away
from it. When I play its accompaniments a
feeling of intense happiness and satisfaction
steals over me, but afterwards the sense of
the ignominy of it all is terrible. I can do
nothing in life but minister to the caprices of
a Cavalanci violin—and finally go crazy.”

Just as he ended there was a tap at the
door, and the servant appeared with a parcel.
It was a disreputable-looking object. The

paper was ragged and dirty, the string
knotted and loosely tied.

Dawson looked at it doubtfully.

“ Are you sure it’s for me ? ” he asked.
“Who brought it?”

“ He looked like a
circus man, sir,” replied
the maid, “and he was
most particular in saying
it was for you.”

“ A circus man,” mut¬
tered Dawson, as he tore
off the wrapper. A violin-
case was exposed to view.
He opened it, and then
gave vent to a yell of
dismay. I looked at the
contents. It was a yellow
violin.

“ What, another Cava¬
lanci ! ” I exclaimed.

“ It looks like it,” said
Dawson, bitterly. “ One’s
quite enough for any
family. I don’t know to
whom I’m indebted for
this particular attention,
but I should like to wring
his precious neck.” Then
he banged the lid to.

“ Here, Saunders,” said
he, “ you can do me this
good turn at any rate.
Take this outside—leave
it in a ’bus or pitch it into a dust-bin ; do
anything you like with it, only take it away,
and it will work its passage to its owner.
But do it at once. I may have to play any
minute to satisfy my own fiddle, and I don’t
know what complication would result. Take
it, man, this minute.”

To satisfy him I look hold of the thing,
put on my hat and opened the door. I
nearly fell over the servant, who was about to
knock ; behind her was a tall, fur-coated
man whom I did not remember to have seen
before. And, good heavens! in his hand
was a violin-case ! The place seemed
infested with fiddles.

I was brushing past him, but he laid a
heavy hand on my shoulder and forced me
back into the room. He himself followed,
closed the door, and placed himself
before it.

“ Excuse my roughness, sir,” said he, with
a strong nasal twang, “ but air you James
Dawson ? ”

“No,” I replied; “ that’s the gentleman,”
pointing to Dawson, who was standing with

3 10

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

eyes staring out of his head, fixed on the
stranger’s violin-case.

“Don’t stay, Saunders,” he almost shrieked,
“take it away. There’s not a moment to be
lost.”

But the new-comer effectually barred the
way.

Dawson was almost beside himself. He
grabbed hold of the poker, but the stranger
coolly threw his case on the table and from
his breast produced a tiny revolver.

“Two can play at that pertic’ler game,
sir,” said he, “ and I reckon the betting’s on
my side to-day.”

And there we stood.

“ Perhaps you’ll kindly
explain what you mean
by this intrusion ? ” I
said, hotly.

“No objection at all,”
said the American, for
so I judged him to be.

“ I’d have done so at
once if James Dawson
hadn’t been so demon¬
strative. You see,

Colonel, it’s thish - yer
way. That infernal cuss,

Cavalanci-”

Again the door opened,
and this time a heavily
muffled foreigner with
spectacles and long hair
appeared, and, ye gods !
he also had a violin-
case.

“ Goot,” said the latest
arrival, “ I see dat I am
joost in de nick off
time. Goot evenings,
shentlemens all,” and
with this he placed his
case and hat on the
table and proceeded to
divest himself of his
wraps.

“ Bravo,” said the Yankee, “ I’m glad to
see you, Bloomstein. We are now complete
—the four extant Cavalanci and the four
owners.”

“I’m not an owner,” I said, in alarm, for I
did not at all like the turn things were taking.

“ You’re the Baboo from Benares, ain’t
you ? ” asked the American.

“ No, sir, I’m not. I’m a friend of Mr.
Dawson. I was simply calling upon him,
and I think I’ll go now. I don’t wish to
intrude on your proceedings.”

“No, you don’t, sir,” said he, turning the

key in the door and pocketing it. “Not till
I’m clear on the subject. Whose fiddle’s
that ? ” pointing to the one I held.

“ It’s just come in a parcel,” said I.

“ Allow me to look at it, please,” said the
Yankee, still toying with his revolver.

He placed the case on the table, opened
it, and drew forth the violin. Underneath it
was a letter.

“ Ah, thishyer’s thingumy’s fist,” said he,

“ and no doubt it will explain. Here, Colonel,
you look like an Oriental scholar, so, perhaps,
you’ll decipher it.” And he handed me the
letter.

The handwriting was
like a copy-book head¬
ing, but the composition
was peculiar. This is
what I read :—

“ Honoured Sir, — It
mortifies me deeply not
to intrude at happy
conversazione. I have
made blue in the Wjski
of Scotchland the rupees
obligingly forwarded so
there is no ability in
me to pay for a transit.
To-day the Gangees re¬
ceives a solid addition
but my fiddle of spank¬
ing yellow will reach
you timely by a holy
gentleman of Shore¬
ditch. — Faithful and
truly, “ Donnergee

Juggernaut.”
“ The cur ! ” exclaimed
the Yankee, when I had
finished reading this
singular epistle. “ Why
didn’t he destroy his
Cavalanci before he
committed suicide in¬
stead of passing it on
here ? Someone will
have to own it or the whole scheme will fall
through. Here, Colonel,” addressing me,
“you’re the odd man out. You’ve got to
take possession of that Cavalanci.”

“ I beg to decline the honour,” I replied,
firmly.

The Yankee lifted his revolver threaten-
ingly.

“Nein, nein,” broke in the German, “do
not shet his blood. Egsblain de matter to
de shentlemans und he vill understand.”

“ Right,” said the Yankee, seating him¬
self astride of a chair, with his back to the

“ I RECKON THE BETTING’S ON MY SIDE
TO-DAY.”

CAVALANCI'S CURSE.

3**

“ i’m glad to see you, bloomstein.’

door, revolver still in hand. “It’s thishyer
way, and maybe if I had told you at first I
should have had a warmer reception from
James Dawson. My name is Masters—
Simpson K. Masters, of Tontine, Dak. I
am the unfortunate* owner of this instru¬
ment, and I need hardly tell you what its
possession entails. 55

A groan broke from the German. “Ja,
ja; dat is so, 55 he said.

“It was left me about five years ago by a
lady who had lost her breach of promise
action against me, and when I fully realized
that I should probably grow woolly if I
could not get rid of it, I determined to
devote what leisure the infernal instrument
left me to making inquiries about Cavalanci
and his curse—for, as most poisons have
their antidote, I reckoned the same arrange¬
ment held good for curses. I spent
all last year at Brescia, where these
things were manufactured. I bought up
every vestige of a relic of Cavalanci, took his
shop for a spell of 999 years, and was pre¬
pared to stay my lease out unless I got what

I wanted. I searched every
corner and cranny of that
air shop after the manner
prescribed by the late E. A.
Poe. I spent days in the
chimneys, and wasted a
power of time in the roof;
I took his old tester-bed to
bits, and probed every inch
of its wood ; and worked
at the anatomy of the build¬
ing till the authorities sent
word it was likely to fall,
but all to no purpose.

“ I had about given up
hope when I chanced upon
a lineal descendant of Cava¬
lanci — a decayed Italian
nobleman in the retail maca¬
roni business. From him
I learnt of the existence of
a tradition that Cavalanci
on his death-bed was an¬
noyed to think of the
trouble he had started, and
got the Devil to promise
that, when a combined band
of all his fiddles played
a certain air, the Curse
should be removed. Why
the Old Gentleman agreed
to this arrangement my in¬
formant couldn’t guess,
unless he did it to soothe
his friend’s last moments, no doubt feeling
pretty certain that the combined band would
never play till he’d got a lot of fun out of
the Curse.

“ It sounded like a cock-and-bull tale, but
the Italian nobleman seemed so certain about
it, and was so much hurt when I doubted him,
that I sort of began to believe in it myself.
As luck had it, I had discovered a roll of
manuscript music up the shop chimney, of
which I had taken no pertic’ler account, but
which now assumed considerable importance.
As I had no piano handy in those days, I had
been playing to my fiddle on a concertina,
and it rather seemed to take to the instru¬
ment ; so the very next time it wanted me to
accompany it, I started to work through that
bunch of tunes on the same article. Now,
whether it was the concertina it suddenly took
a dislike to, or whether the tunes didn’t agree
with it, I don’t pretend to say, but it turned
sulky and wouldn’t take a hand in noway, that
is until I came to one pertic’ler air. It was
a weird affair—a sort of mixture of the ‘Dead
March in Saul 5 and ‘Hail, Columbia! 5 It

3 12

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ It will break,” said Simpson K.
Masters.

“ Saunders,” said Dawson, who had
worked himself up into a state of great
excitement, “ I implore you to help us
destroy this Curse. You owe it to me to
do so, for it’s all through you I got into
the trouble at all.”

“ I’m awfully sorry, Dawson,” I re¬
plied, “ but I cannot. I was very strictly
brought up, and my family would not like
me to mix myself up in anything of this
nature. You must respect my scruples.”

“And you must respect this, sir,” said
the Yankee, holding his revolver at an
extremely unpleasant angle.

There was no help for it. “ All
right,” I said, “ I’ll do it for my old
friend Dawson’s sake/ Nothing else
would have induced me. But I
can’t play any instrument,” I added,
triumphantly.

“ Mein Gott ! ” exclaimed the

“i DISCOVERED A ROLL OF MANUSCRIPT MUSIC UP THE SHOP CHIMNEY.

German.

struck in from the first note in a nasty
nagging way, and if ever a fiddle played
unwillingly that one did. It lagged behind
and put in commas and full-stops where
they were not wanted, and in every other
bar it screeched out a note of exclamation
that wasn’t down in my part. But I took
it out of that Cavalanci, gentlemen, and made
it sit up, for when I’d run through the ditty I
started it all over again, and that instrument
followed me like a whipped cur. And then
another remarkable thing happened. It
changed colour—from yellow to orange and
then to a dirty brown. I guess I’d touched
it up at last; and when I saw this I closed
the concert and gave that Italian nobleman
an order for macaroni that surprised him.

“ Although it regained its old colour, I was
firmly convinced from the behaviour of my
violin that the nobleman was right, and that
if I could get the whole extant Cavalanci
together the Curse could be broken ; and
the last few months I have spent in tracing
Bloomstein, the Baboo, and our friend James
Dawson, and in making arrangements for
this happy meeting. I thought it better to
keep the notion from you, James, until now,
for fear of incredulity on your part. And
now, Colonel,” turning to me, “ you must
assume possession of that Baboo’s fiddle. It
won’t take ten minutes to break that air
Curse.”

“ But if it doesn’t break ? ” I urged.

“ Why, I have heard you play
‘ Haydn’s Surprise,’ ” said Dawson.

“ Only on one finger,” I modestly urged.

“Try it, sir, with your toes if you like,”
said the Yankee. “ And I shall be surprised
if that fiddle don’t respond. A Cavalanci
ain’t pertic’ler when it wants an owner.”

I sat down at the piano and played, what I
knew of the air. A shadow of despair came
over Dawson’s face, and the German put
his fingers in his ears, but Simpson K.
Masters encouraged me to persevere.

“ Keep it up, Colonel,” said he. “ Put
the pedal on, it’ll help you round the
corners.”

Before I had played a dozen notes a sound
came from the table.

“ Hurrah ! ” cried Dawson.

“ The Baboo’s fiddle has bit,” said Simpson
K. Masters.

Sure enough the violin had joined in, and
I turned cold at the thought that I was now
the owner of a Cavalanci violin.

I played all I knew of the air and then
stopped. The violin ceased as well.

“ It would not let you off so easily in a
week or two, Colonel,” said the Yankee,
grimly. “ Now, gentlemen, here we are—
the four extant Cavalanci and the four
owners. All we have to do is to run
through Cavalanci’s Antidote and our
troubles are over.”

With eager impatience Dawson sat down
at the piano, the German produced a flageolet,
and Masters a flute.

CA VALANCVS CURSE .

3i3

“ What am I to play ? ” said I, in dismay.
“ You mustn’t leave me out.”

“Haven’t you got anything, James?” said
the Yankee. “ A drum would do.”

“ I’ve nothing that I know of,” replied
Dawson.

“ Then we must send out for some¬
thing.”

“ I have it,” said Dawson. “ I bought a
triangle some years ago, and ought to have it
still.”

“ A driangle—goot ! ” said Mr. Bloomstein,
and Masters nodded his satisfaction.

After some little delay the triangle was
found, and when I had received a few in¬
structions on the manipulation of this simple
instrument Dawson sat down, and the
quartet—or rather octet—
commenced.

I don’t think it was a
success from a musical
point of view, for we
were all excited. Even
the flute was off-colour.

Still, we hung together
pretty well, and stuck to
the notes as well as we
could. I tapped my triangle
with considerable effect.

The four Cavalanci
joined in from the first
note. It was a weird and
mournful composition, and
the violins kept up the
pathos of the thing with
remarkable effect. It was
like the prolonged wail of
a soul in torment, with
sudden outbursts of Satanic
joviality. Our feelings were
strung to the highest pitch,
for we were playing for out¬
lives. The sweat rolled
off Bloomstein’s face, and
Dawson’s hands trembled
like aspen leaves. Simpson
K. Masters tried to appear
unconcerned— and failed.

The others were intent
on the notes, but as I played
from ear I was able to
observe the fiddles. I
could feel my heart thump¬

ing as I watched them. Would the “ Antidote ”
act, or was it all a delusion of the Yankee’s?
Was I not saddled for life with a fearful
monstrosity which would finally undermine
my reason ?

Ha ! it was touching them. Masters was
right. They were changing colour! They
were a rich yellow when we started, but with
every bar their hue deepened through vary¬
ing shades of orange, brown, walnut, darker,
darker still, till at last four coal-black violins
lay upon the table. As the final bars came
their notes shrieked out as if in terrible
protest, and as the last chord was struck
sixteen strings snapped with one crack.

“ Gentlemen,” said the Yankee, “ I guess
Signor Cavalanci’s Curse is off.”

“signor cavalanci’s curse is off.”

Vol. xvii.—40

The Site of the Garden of Eden.

By General Gordon.

[ 'The following article was written , and illustrated with maps , by General Gordon, in 1882 , in the form of
a letter to a friend , a missionary , /wra the light for the fit st time. It is of unique interest , not .only
on account oj the eminence of the writer , but also because of the fact that he was probably the most competent
person in the world to deal with this fascinating subject, owing to the extent of his researches as an archceologist
in the Orient , combined with the deep religious feeling which was the keynote of all his actions.’]

HE following are the reasons for
the theory that the Garden of
Eden is at or near Seychelles.

I could even put it at Praslin,
a small isle twenty miles north
of Mahe.

Allow that Genesis is not allegorical, that
Eden, its garden, its two trees, did exist on this
earth. Eden is a district, the garden is a spot
chosen in that district, the trees were actual
trees, imbued for a time with spiritual quali¬
ties ; these trees, the bush, the ark, the
tabernacle, a id temple differed nothing from
the same things in the world except for the
time during which they were spiritually con¬
secrated or set apart for manifestations of
God, or Satan. God’s consecration made
things which were equally clean, clean and
unclean ; therefore, I see no reason for doubt¬
ing that God did set apart the two trees to
be one of Life, the other of Knowledge;
or that God, when these two trees had
fulfilled their purpose, should have relegated
them back to their former ordinary tree
position. We see this in the way the temple
is no more than another building; in the way
the Philistines and Titus and Nebuchad¬
nezzar carried off the holy things of God
which, at one time, it was death to touch. I
therefore maintain that there is no reason to
doubt but that two trees of the earth were
used as mystical or sacramental trees in
Eden’s garden, or that they were destroyed
when they had fulfilled their mission; they
were, I think, relegated back to their position
as trees.

Allowing this, what was the temptation of
man ? Piere is his soliloquy. “ It must be
good to eat; it looks nice. I wonder what
would be the effect of eating it, just a little
bit.” In this, we must put ourselves in
man’s position. He then could have no
other temptation but this: he could only be
tempted by his. belly’s appetite; he could
desire no carriages, dress, or jewels; he had
no one to be spiteful to, to be jealous of, to
hate; he could be greedy and he could be
curious; he was as a child, curious and
greedy, so that the temptation was neces¬
sarily, I think, that which it was. We ever
have many doors open to temptation, for the
increase of man increases the doors by which
we can be tempted. The temptation was, in

its result, distrust of God, a feeling that God
withheld something from man. In man is
implanted by nature the spirit of inquiry.
We all know this: tell a child not to open a
certain book, he immediately has an immense
longing to open that book, which he would
not have noticed if he had not been for¬
bidden to touch it. You can test it yourself:
leave a dozen lozenges on your table, tell a
child not to eat them, let the child see them
constantly, tell him only once, and add to
your telling that, if he eats, something
unknown to him will happen. Keep treating
the child kindly, so that he will not fear you :
some day you will find eleven lozenges—at
least, I think so. Therefore I think the for¬
bidding of the tree was even, to our own
reason, a fair test to man, and that the very
fact of this distrust and forgetfulness of God
was virtually a communion with Satan, a
sacrament with Satan; a mystical eating,
though material, which led to Satan com¬
municating or inoculating man with evil,
poisoning, tainting him.

Now, with respect to the other tree, the
Tree of Life, there is no reason to doubt
but that man often had ate of it; before
his banquet on the forbidden tree, man
had communed with God, when he named
the animals, etc., and there is every pro¬
bability he did eat of the Tree of Life. I
do not go into detail on this, for you know
the Scriptures and you know what is written
of the Bread of Life, the fruit of the Tree of
Life, etc., which, eventually, in the last chapter
of Revelation, appears again alone, not with
the Tree of Knowledge; therefore, I think
man often partook of the Tree of Life in the
garden. When he had eaten of the Tree of
Knowledge, he was prevented from so doing,
for he had acquired a taint from thus eating,
which, if he had after eaten of the Tree of
Life, would have given him immortality; in
his degraded state, he would have mixed God
with Satan in their attributes, which cannot
be : God will not serve with Satan. I do not
go into all this, for I have not time, but I
believe that the Tree of Life, spiritually,
exists, also 'the Tree of Knowledge ; that we
eat sometimes of one, some often of the
other; that the fiery cherubim is the law
which guards the Tree of Life, and it is only
through the broken body, the veil of Christ,

THE SITE OF THE GARDEN OF EDEN

315

we can approach to eat the fruit of the Tree
of Life, which is Christ.

I am now relating to you how these
thoughts first struck me, and in the order in
which they did.

Well, I thought there were two trees—
actual trees—which had been sacramental,
and had ceased to be so; and in Praslin near
Seychelles, and only there in the whole world,
is a magnificent tree, curious beyond descrip¬
tion, called the Prince of the Vegetable
Kingdom; it is unique in its species, and
on earth. The Laodicean Seychellarum, or
Coco di Mir. This, I believe, was the Tree
of Knowledge. I then thought if the one
tree is to be found, so is the other, and this
I think is the Artocarpus incisa , or bread¬
fruit ; it is a humble tree, of no great distinc¬
tion, yet to an observer it is as unique in its
kind and among trees as the other. This
last tree is only found in the Indian Ocean.
It is a life-sustaining tree, and, like the other,
it is full of Scriptural types.

Having thought that these were the two
trees, then the question arose : where was the
Garden of Eden ? And first came the infor¬
mation that Seychelles is of granite, and all
other isles out here are volcanic, granite being
the more ancient formation. Then Rev. I).
Bury mentioned casually that the verse
Genesis ii., 10., could be read that the four
rivers flowed into Eden, not out of it. I have
been at the sources of Euphrates, Tigris, etc.,
etc., and unless the rivers were forced to flow
backwards, no spot could agree to a central
basin in those lands, while a flood does not
change features of 10,oooft. high. So I took
the rivers Euphrates —as Euphrates, on which
is Babylon ; Hiddekel —as Tigris, on which
is Nineveh (vide Daniel). They meet and
flow into the Persian Gulf.

Babylon oppressed Israel—Nineveh op¬
pressed Israel. Required two other rivers
connected with oppression of Israel.

The question of whether ever a river came
down the Valley of Jordan into th^ Red Sea
is one which has been much discussed.
That an immense crevasse exists from the
source of the Jordan to the Red Sea is
the case ; the depression of the Dead Sea
is the difficulty ; the ravines of Kedron and
Gihon are very deep.

Taking my ground spiritually, and the
similarity of the name Gihon with the brook
of Jerusalem, I think that they are the same.

The Pison, or Nile, flowed into the Red
Sea, the Gihon or Gihon Brook flowed into
the Red Sea, joined, flowed down, met the
Euphrates and Tigris, united near Socotra,

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

3 l6

and the soundings shown end in a deep basin
2,600 fathoms deep, which is close to Sey¬
chelles. Cush is written in margin for
Ethiopia. Gush was son of Nimrod* ; his
land was probably near Babylon, now Bab
el Mandeb. Perim means Bab (gate) el (of)
Mandeb (the world).

Bison means overflowing—the Nile over¬
flows. Egypt oppressed Israel. The Nile is
believed now to flow into the Red Sea ; the
Blue Nile encompasses Godjam, a province of
Abyssinia, in which there is gold. Havilah,
son of J ok tan, son of Shem, went with Sheba
and Ophir to Mesha (Sale’s Koran says)

This is about the substance of everything
about Eden—its garden and its trees ; quite
useless unless it tended to illustrate a great
truth. The first word God utters to man is
“ Thou shall not eat”; the last injunction
Christ gives is “ Take , eat.” To the world
at large the history of the Fall is foolishness :
such effects could never come from so small
a cause as eating of a tree. So the large pro¬
portion of professing Christians, they believe
the first, but put aside the second, eating,
as impossible to produce any such effects.

What was the forbidden fruit? It was
fruit of the ground. What is the bidden fruit ?

THE SITE OF THE GARDEN OF EDEN : A FACSIMILE OF GORDON'S MAP.

and spread along the Red Sea. The Sea of
Zugla, opposite Aden, is called Sirius Havilah
Sheba, and Ophir is generally connected with
Abyssinia, so I think Bison is Nile.

Giho?i means “ bursting forth ” ; the brook
Gihon is southern side of Jerusalem : it meets
Kedron and flows, when it does flow, to the
Salt Sea (Dead Sea), by the Valley of Fire ;
it is Tophet, Hinnom, the Valley of Slaughter,
the sewer of Jerusalem, the site of all abomin¬
able sacrifices ; it is connected with Jerusalem
in an evil way; it has the same name as
Genesis. Now comes a difficulty, t

* This appears to be an oversight. See Genesis x. 8 : “And

Cush begat Nimrod.”

t Here follow the maps reproduced on the opposite page.

It is fruit of corn and juice of grape. Both
nothing—yet one caused great things. May
not the other cause greater? The sequence
of the one eating was not known ; the
sequence of the other may not be known in
its fulness. Yet it may be believed to be
far, infinitely far greater. A child and the
highest angel can understand that by eating
a poison one is ill, by eating an antidote one
is cured. Yet the highest angel could not
understand the depths of either eating. Are
we, therefore, to wait for that understanding ?
We ate in Adam in distrust , let us eat i?i
trust. Let even curiosity lead us to do so.
We are bidden. Why not try it ?

THE SITE OF 1 HE GARDEN OF EDEN.

3 1 7

FACSIMILE OK GORDON S MAPS ILLUSTRATING A DIFFICULTY IN FIXING THE SITE—THE UPPER PORTION REPRESENTS THE BIRD’s-EYE VIEW, THE LOWER THE SECTION, OF THE DISTRICT.

Baron Brampton of Brampton.

ERHAPS no living lawyer
filled the public eye in a more
complete manner than Sir
Henry Hawkins, to call him
for the moment by the long-
familiar title. Famous as an
advocate, celebrated as a judge, distinguished
alike by catholicity of tastes, vast experi¬
ence of life, and knowledge of the princi¬
ples and details of law, it might not
unreasonably be thought that of all men
he has the most frequently fallen a prey
to the pen of the
interviewer. But
such is not the case ;
for, though inter¬
viewers of all sorts
and conditions have
endeavoured to secure
his attention, he has
invariably turned a
deaf ear to the jour¬
nalistic charmer, and
refused to assist in
the publication of his
interesting record. If
he would write it, or
allow it to be written,
what a history it would
be of nearly sixty
years of intellectual
life !

When discussing
this subject one day,

Lord Brampton told
me that he had pre¬
served no reports,
kept no diary, and
' was entirely depen¬
dent on his memory
for the facts of a
successful career.

“I have often been asked to write my
memoirs,” he said; “but, apart from the
trouble of doing so, I do not like the idea.
You see, if I said anything good of myself,
my unkind critics would write me down vain,
and—well, I am certainly not going to point
out my defects to an over-discriminating
public.”

Lord Brampton was born on the 14th
of September, 1817, at Hitchin, in the
County of Hertford. His father was a much
respected and esteemed family solicitor, and
his son was at one time destined to follow
him in that honourable profession. How-

E.”

ever, this was not to be, for the future judge
aspired to a greater fame than was attainable
by the practice of the law in a small country
town, and determined to try his fortune in
the more uncertain branch of the legal
profession—the Bar.

Accordingly, as soon as he could do so, he
turned towards London, and entered as a
student at the Middle Temple. During his
student days he studied unremittingly, in
grim and serious earnest, catching but few
glimpses of pleasure, and striving unceasingly
to prepare himself for
the desperate battle
which success at the
Bar entails. In 1841
he went into the
chambers of a special
pleader, and after his
term had expired as
a pupil, he set up for
himself, and did a
good practice “ under
the Bar.”

In a year or two he
tired of the solitude ol
a pleader’s chambers,
and while acknow¬
ledging his great in¬
debtedness to the
system of pleading
then in vogue, as a
never- to-be-surpassed
teacher of law, he
entered the wider
field of advocacy, and
in May, 1843, was
called to the Bar at
the Middle Temple.

Every man worth
his salt has enemies,
and unscrupulous
they ofttimes are; but it is certain that not
even the most venomous of personal foes
would deny that the cup of success was
well filled for Lord Brampton during the
thirty-three years when, either as Junior or
Queen’s Counsel, he was a prominent figure
at the Bar.

No success chronicled in the pages of
history was ever more honestly won, no
success was ever more complete; it was
founded on a basis of combined ability
and determination, and, therefore, stood on
the soundest of all foundations.

And here let me correct a very erroneous

BARON BRAMPTON OP BRAMPTON

3 1 9

impression which, although never prevalent,
has been voiced by many whom ignorance
or envy has led astray. It is absolutely untrue
that Lord Brampton received any assistance
from his relations : his father gave him no
work, for the simple reason he had none to
give; he could, it is true, introduce his son
to his friends in the county, but any pro¬
fessional assistance was out of his power.
And thus it may be truly said that Lord
Brampton owes the whole of his successful
career, both socially and professionally, to his
own unaided efforts.

The work of his early life was severe, and
on one occasion Lord Brampton, when speak¬
ing of his entering the profession, used
words that will awake a responsive echo in
many a junior’s heart: “If I had known
what was before me, what the awful un¬
certainty of success at the Bar really was,
I don’t think I should ever have dared to
face it, and I
certainly would
advise no young
man to embark in
it without ample
means at his back
to support the
possibility of
failure.”

The work was
indeed severe,
but his career was
unprecedentedly
successful. As a
junior, he was
engaged in many
great trials. At
the Old Bailey,
in i 85 3, when
Strahan, Paul,
and Bates, the
bankers, were
tried for embez¬
zling securities
belonging to their
customers, before
Baron Alderson
and Mr. Justice
W i 11 e s, L o r d
Brampton ap¬
peared with Ser¬
jeant Byles for
Sir John Dean
Paul.

Despite his
efforts, his client,
with the other
prisoners, was

convicted and sentenced to fourteen years’
transportation.

Before this, in 1847, he had defended a
man named Pollard, who was charged with
defrauding Prince Louis Napoleon, afterwards
Emperor of the French, and had the duty
cast upon him of cross-examining at Bow
Street the future Sovereign, who, it has been
stated by Lord Brampton, gave his evidence
clearly and well. In 1858 he successfully
defended, with Mr. Edwin James, Q.C.,
Serjeant Simon, and others, Simon Bernard,
who was charged with being an accessory to
Orsini’s conspiracy against the life of Napoleon
III., and he figured in many other great
cases. But it was when he “ took silk ” that
he startled the whole professional world by
developing a practice which has never been
excelled, and rarely equalled.

Among some of the great cases he was
engaged in as a Q C. was the case of Saurin

v. Starr, known as
the Convent case;
the Lord St. Leo¬
nard’s will case;
the Gladstone
and the Van
Re able divorce
suits; the West-
minster Election
Petition, in which
he defended Mr.
W. H. Smith’s
seat; the Roupell
case and theTich-
borne case; and
the charge against
Colonel Valen¬
tine Baker, whom
he defended at
Croydon Assizes
in 1875; °f
which are land¬
marks in the his¬
tory of the law,
and stages in the
progress of a great
advocate.

Lord Bramp¬
ton was created a
Queen’s Counsel
in 1858. For a
very long time he
had what is tech¬
nically termed
“ led in stuff,”
that is, he did a
large “ leading ”
business as a

From a Photo, by] LORD BRAMPTON—PRESENT DAY. [Elliott & Fry.

3 2 °

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

junior. The reason for this was that it had
been intimated to the Bar that no more
“silks” would be made for some time; for
in those days, unlike the present, a silk gown
was deemed to be a proof of exceptional
position at the Bar, and was much more
difficult to obtain than at the present day.

The number was
consequently very
limited. This pressed
very hardly on Lord
Brampton, for he
practically was forced
to do a Q. CPs business
for stuff gownsmen’s
fees. However,
directly Sir Frederick
Thesiger became
Lord Chelmsford and
Lord Chancellor, one
of his first official acts
was to recommend
for “silk” the coun¬
sel who had long
merited it.

Sixty years have
gone since Lord
Brampton attended
for the first time a
criminal trial. He
had not then been
“called,” and the
case was a very terri¬
ble one. The place
was Hertford, the
occasion the Assizes, and the prisoners two
boys named Roche and Fletcher, who were
indicted before Mr. Justice Vaughan for
wilful murder.

The reported facts of the case were that
the prisoners and some other boys—one of
whom was named Taylor—had attacked and
robbed an old man, whom they finally left,
exhausted but not fatally injured, in the road.
When they had proceeded some little way,
Taylor, without mentioning his intention to
his companions, returned to the place of
the robbery and gave the old man a fatal
kick. Roche and Fletcher had apparently
nothing more to do with the murder ;
but, in the result, they were convicted,
sentenced to death, and ultimately hanged.
The scene in court was so painful as to
make an ineffaceable impression on one at
least of the bystanders. When the verdict
of the jury was given, the prisoners fell help¬
lessly over the front of the dock, and had to
be carried to their cells. The man who had
really been the cause of the old man’s death

escaped for a time, and enlisted in a line
regiment. The police, however, intercepted
a letter from him to his relatives, opened
it, and found his address. He was speedily
arrested, was tried at the Hertford Assizes,
and was also hanged.

Lord Brampton began his legal life in the
days when Sir F.
Pollock and Sir W.
Follett, Sir Fitzroy
Kelly, Adolphus, and
others, were practising
barristers. Those,
too, were the days of
Charles Phillips,
Clarkson, Bodkin,
Payne, and others of
a bygone generation,
whose names will
readily suggest them¬
selves to the lawyer
on criminal trials at
the Old Bailey. They
used to sit then from
9 a.rn. till 9 p.m. ;
there were two din¬
ners, one at three
o’clock, the other at
five, at which judges,
barristers, and friends
of the Lord Mayor and
officials used to dine.
Those days and their
customs have gone—
and so much the better.

Lord Brampton was never a mere criminal
lawyer, though he certainly defended many
prisoners both in London and on the Home
Circuit, but he never attached himself in any
way to the Criminal Courts.

He is fond of telling the story of a
trial which took place on his first visit to
the Old Bailey, and which may be sum¬
marized as follows : Montague Chambers
was defending a man for murder and robbery.
I do not know the name of the prisoner,
but the crime was committed in Pocock
Fields, Islington. The evidence was strong,
but somehow or other Chambers succeeded
in getting him off, and after the trial the man
left the court with his friends, who had
arranged to send him out of the country.
Unfortunately for him, that same evening he
went into a public-house, and under the
influence of drink, not only confessed, but
even stated that he had thrown the piece of
wood he had used in committing the crime
into a pond, which he specified. One of the
bystanders noted what he said and then

LORD BRAMPTON— PRESENT DAY.
From a Photo, by Maull <£ Fox.

BARON BRAMPTON OT BRAMPTON.

3 2T

communicated with the police, who went to
the pond and there discovered the piece of
wood. The result was that the man was
arrested on board the ship that was to have
taken him to Australia, and being tried for
robbery, he was sentenced to be transported
for life.

I may add, for the benefit of the ordinary
reader, that, having once been acquitted of
murder, the miscreant could not be tried
again for that offence, but as on that trial
he could not have been found guilty of
the robbery he had committed, he had
never been in peril of conviction for that
crime, and so was properly tried and sen¬
tenced.

The much-debated question whether, if a
prisoner has confessed his guilt to his counsel,
that counsel should afterwards defend him,
came prominently to the front in court
the trial of Courvoisier.

1 he facts of that notorious
case are, shortly, as follows :

Courvoisier was the valet of
Lord William Russell, who,
on May the 6th, 1840, was
found murdered at his house
in Park Lane. As the result
of investigation, Courvoisier
was apprehended, and on
June 18th he was tried for
the murder at the Old Bailey
before three judges, of whom
the late Mr. Baron Parke
was one. Charles Phillips,
a very celebrated advocate,
defended, and the first two
days of the trial were on the
whole not hopeless to the
prisoner. But before the third day arrived, it
was discovered that certain plate which had
disappeared from Lord William’s house had
been deposited at a house in or near Leicester
Square soon after the murder by Courvoisier.
On this discovery being made known to the
prisoner, he had an interview with his
counsel and practically confessed his guilt.
Phillips then went to Mr. Baron Parke and
asked what he should do, and that learned
judge told him to continue the defence.
This Phillips did, and in his speech to the
jury he made use of certain expressions
which were thought by some to convey a
positive falsehood. For this he was greatly
blamed, not only in the Press, but by a large
section of the Bar.

I once heard Lord Brampton speak of this,
and he emphatically and without any reser¬
vation took the side of Phillips, and his

Vol. xvii,— 41

views on the matter are identical with those
that are now expressed.

“ In the first place, Phillips had been
charged with telling a lie : this was a most
unfair and stupid accusation. It is true
that, having reason to believe that Cour¬
voisier had killed Lord William Russell, he
said, ‘ The Almighty God above alone knows
who did this deed of darkness,’ but
that didn’t mean that neither the prisoner
nor his counsel knew. Phillips was an
advocate, and was fully entitled to insist on
preserving his character as such. He had a
right to refuse to regard the case outside of
the evidence given. It is also said that,
knowing what he did, he tried to fix the crime
on a servant girl, who was clearly innocent.
He did no such thing ; what he did say was,
‘If this fact’—alluding to one of the incidents

in of the trial-

LORD BRAMPTON AS A Q.C., i860.
From a Photo, by Manll <£ Polyblank.

is relied on by the prosecution
it might equally well be relied
on against the girl, who did
the same thing, and might
equally well be advanced to
prove she committed the
murder ’; but Phillips never
suggested guilt in her.”

Some time after, when
speaking of that case to
1 .ord Brampton, I trespassed
on his forbearance and asked
him : “Assuming that a pri¬
soner confesses his guilt to
his advocate, I gather that it
is in your opinion the duty
of counsel to go on with the
defence ? ”

“ Most certainly; the
prisoner makes a state-
counsel for the purpose of
and not to manufacture a
himself. It is an advocate’s
himself to the task of

ment to his
his defence,
witness against
duty to confine

pointing out to a jury that the evidence
before the Court is not sufficient to
warrant a conviction. He has no business
to go beyond it. An advocate should not
lie, and should not impute a crime to an
innocent person ; but short of that he ought,
as an advocate in dealing with the evidence,
to do all in his power to bring about the
liberation of his client. But he has no right
to express his own opinion upon the guilt
or innocence of his client. An advocate
should free himself from his own individuality
as a private citizen directly he assumes the
character of an advocate.”

Another story, which Lord Brampton tells
with profound effect, is that of his first defence

3 22

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

in a murder case, which, in addition to being
interesting, throws light on the subject I have
just been discussing. Some time after he was
“called,” he was at Maidstone Assizes. He
had been retained to defend three people who
were accused of wilful murder. They were all
of one family—a father, mother, and son—and
their alleged victim was a poor servant girl,
who had undoubtedly been killed for the
sake of the very small sum of money she
possessed. After dinner, on the day he
arrived in the town, he was sitting in his
lodgings just about to begin working at his
brief, when the solicitor instructing him came
in. He said : —

“ Mr. Hawkins, I have a rather strange
question to put to you, and one which I am
not sure you will answer.”

“ What is it ? ” he replied.

“ I have just seen the female prisoner;
she wishes me to ask you whether, in the
event of her pleading guilty to the murder,
you will be able to save her husband and her
son. She is perfectly willing to admit the
whole charge, and take the full responsibility
for her crime. She will say that she, and she
alone, did the murder, if you think she will,
by so doing, save her husband and son.”

Lord Brampton replied that he hadn’t read
his brief, and couldn’t say. “ Is it a bad
case ? ” he asked.

“ A terribly bad case; it could not be
worse ! ” was the answer, which clearly
showed him that the
woman’s plea of
“guilty” would be a
true plea, and the men’s
pleas of “ not guilty ”
untrue.

“ Have you told her
that if she does plead
guilty she will be
hanged ? ”

“Yes, she knows
that. She is prepared to
take the consequences
if she can free her hus¬
band and her son.”

Lord Brampton pro¬
mised to read the brief
and tell him in the
morning his opinion of
his clients’ position.

After reading the brief
he came to the con¬
clusion that they were
all three guilty or all
innocent. In the result
they all pleaded “ not

guilty,” and he defended them successfully
on the evidence.

When the series of lawsuits which cul¬
minated in the trial at Bar of the Claimant
to the Tichborne Estates was first launched,
Lord Brampton was a Queen’s Counsel in
possession of a practice which in retainers
alone amounted to hundreds a year.

The magnitude of such a practice can
only be properly appreciated by those
who were acquainted with it, and it
must suffice to say that very few of our
most heavily-feed counsel have ever come
within measurable distance of it. At the
time when Arthur Orton first startled the
country by preferring a claim to estates
bringing in over twenty thousand a year, Lord
Brampton found himself in the happy position
of being retained both for the Claimant and
for the trustees of one of the estates. It
was obvious that he could not act for both
parties, so he arranged to appear for the
defendants. Want of space prevents me
from recalling even the salient points of that
great case, or of Lord Brampton’s part in it,
but it is generally admitted in legal circles
that his conduct throughout the Tichborne
litigation was of pre-eminent excellence.

On the 2nd of November, 1876, Lord
Brampton was raised to the Bench. This ap¬
pointment created some surprise, not because
the new judge was not everywhere considered
worthy of the honour, but for the very—in
these days — singular
reason that, having
already refused a judge-
ship, it was thought that
he did not desire pro¬
motion. However,'Lime
can do a great deal, and
'Time, in this connec¬
tion, reconciled Lord
Brampton to the sur¬
render of the great
position he held among
English advocates. He
accordingly exchanged
the successful, trouble¬
some labours of the
Bar for the dignified
leisure of a judge’s
career. At the end of
this article, my views of
my subject as a judge
will be found shortly
expressed, and now I
am concerned with
history. But, still, let
me once and for all

LORD ISKAMl’TON, 1864.

From a I'Unto, by Manll <0 Put {/blank.

BARON BRAMPTON OF BRAMPTON.

323

LORD BRAMPTON AS DEPICTED BY “ VANITY FAIR” DURING THE
TICHBORNE TRIAL, 1873.

By special pennission of the Proprietors of “ Vanity Fair”

say this : that to identify severity with Lord
Brampton is to attempt to range under
a common classification things that are
essentially different.

Those who have experience of Law Courts
will know that Lord Brampton was ever on
the side of the weak, and, to my mind, took
an even exaggerated view of the dignity of
humanity.

It is well known that he is entirely opposed
either to birching or flogging. He holds
and has publicly stated that such a punish¬
ment “ brutalizes the person who suffers it,
and tends to brutalize the person inflicting
it; that it is cruel and barbarous, and only
tends to excite a spirit of dogged revenge
in the culprit.” He does not believe that
flogging put down garroting, and has often
condemned the system of giving a man a

short sentence and a flogging as
radically bad. The man suffers
his punishment—he argues—and by
the time he has served his term, has
forgotten all about it. “ The fear of
such another punishment again is,
experience tells us, insufficient to be
really deterrent; so the result is that
you turn a man into a devil, and
have not one atom of good to show
for the sacrifice.”

Only once has he sentenced a
person to be flogged, and then it
was a very brutal case, which was
tried many years ago at Leeds. The
prisoner got his victim down, and
deliberately ground his iron-heeled
boot into his eye. It was an ex¬
ceptionally bad case, but even then
the punishment was indefensible in
principle. He objected to ordering
children to be birched, for the idea
of sending a poor little fellow to be
flogged by a prison warder in a
prison yard was repulsive to him ;
and, besides, he deemed the punish¬
ment both cruel and useless. He
was of opinion that a birching not
only degrades the child, but it, so to
speak, stereotypes the fault in his
nature, leaving a painful memory to
the end of his life. The criminal
population owe a great deal to Lord
Brampton, for he was the foremost in
insisting on the speedy trial of pris¬
oners, and the propriety of allowing
bail in all but the most serious cases.
In many other respects, too, he
advocated the more enlightened and
merciful treatment of prisoners.

He defends the ticket-of-leave system as
one which, while assisting in the preservation
of prison discipline by encouraging good
conduct, renders the convict’s life less
hopeless and less dreary; but he condemns
the system of “ police supervision,” whose
evils he has too often seen evidenced.

A man when he leaves prison should be
able to begin life afresh, and it would have
been bad for a policeman proved guilty of
interfering with a ticket-of-leave man who was
ooing his best to gain an honest livelihood,
had Lord Brampton been called upon to
speak his mind.

It is well known that he does not dis¬
approve of the capital sentence, which he
would limit to cases of murder other than
infanticide and “ constructive murder ” by a
mother. This view seems imperative, for

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THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

if death were not the punishment for murder,
every burglar would carry his revolver and
argue : “ If I kill my victim I may escape ; if
I don’t, five or ten years more may be my fate
—it is worth trying.” The criminal classes
don’t joke with their necks, but they will
always risk a given term of penal servitude.
“There is no doubt,” he said to me when
speaking on this subject, “ that the capital
sentence is absolutely necessary to the well¬
being of the community.”

In meting out punishment, Lord Brampton
took all the circumstances of the case
into consideration, and never punished a
mere momentary lapse into crime with
severity, unless attended
with deliberate cruelty.

He believes that the
proper end of punish¬
ment is to deter, and
not merely to inflict
pain. He approves of
long terms for habitual
offenders convicted of
serious crimes, but not
for the man or woman
who has through some
great temptation or
weakness momentarily
lapsed.

Among the chief
criminal cases over
which he has presided
was the Penge mystery.

This case was tried at
the Old Bailey in 1877,
and ended in the four
prisoners being sen¬
tenced to death. It

is common knowledge
that the whole batch
was subsequently re¬
prieved, and Lord
Brampton’s opinion as
to the propriety of the intervention of the
Home Secretary is also well known.

At the Old Bailey, in 1879, a woman
named Hannah Dobbs was tried for murder
before Lord Brampton—strange to say, at the
same time that Kate Webster was being

tried in an adjoining court for a similar crime
by Mr. Justice Denman. The facts, shortly,
are as follows : A Miss Hacker lodged in
Euston Square with a certain married
couple. She was an eccentric old lady,

and always kept a large sum of money

in a cash-box in her bedroom. Hannah
Dobbs was a servant in the house. One
Sunday, Dobbs told her master and

mistress that Miss Hacker had left the
house. Four days afterwards, her master
and mistress went up to Miss Hacker’s room,
found it empty, and on the carpet a stain of
blood, which had been partially washed out.

A few days afterwards, Dobbs was seen with
a book of dreams, which had belonged to
Miss Hacker; she gave the lid of Miss
Hacker’s cash-box to a child for a plaything,
and was noticed to be wearing a watch and
chain she had not worn before—and which
were proved to have been Miss Hacker’s.
In her box, also, were found several articles
which were identified as having belonged to
Miss Hacker. Seven or eight months after¬
wards, the body of Miss
Hacker was found in
the cellar, and Dobbs
was put on her trial for
murder. The circum¬
stantial evidence against
her was very strong, but
the defence was that
another person—a sug¬
gested lover — had
killed the woman, and
had given the things to
Dobbs. This line was
successful and Dobbs
was acquitted. The
other person was soon
afterwards put upon
his trial for perjury
arising out of this case,
and was sentenced to
twelve months’ hard
labour by Lord Bramp¬
ton. Hannah Dobbs
owed a great deal to
Lord Brampton, who
always took the view
that, although the
evidence against a
prisoner may be strong,
the punishment of death is such a terrible
and irrevocable one, that it ought only to be
pronounced on the very clearest evidence.
The evidence in this case was not such as to
exclude a reasonable doubt, and so Mr. Mead
(the present police magistrate) succeeded in
getting his client off.

Referring for a moment to the trial of
the Muswell Hill burglars, it is reported
that when someone asked Lord Brampton,
“ Was there not a doubt as to the complicity of
Milsom in the murder?” he replied, “Not
the very slightest; what made you think so ? ”
“ The reports in the newspapers seemed just
compatible with the theory of the defence.”

BARON BRAMPTON OF BRAMPTON

“ Yes/’ said Lord Brampton, in a convincingly
humorous tone ; “ but / try a case on the
evidence given in court; and on that
evidence no reasonable person could doubt
that Milsom was quite as guilty as Fowler.”

Lamson, whose guilt was never in doubt,
was another criminal tried by Lord Brampton ;
and the thief and murderer Charles Peace was
also brought before him at the Old Bailey,
in 1878. He was charged with shooting
at a constable with intent to murder him,
and on being convicted he made a long,
passionate, tearful appeal for mercy, the
while he literally “ grovelled ” before the
judge. Mr. Montagu Williams’s account of
this incident is well worthy of reproduc¬
tion

“ This harangue seemed to have an effect
upon everybody in court except the man to
whom it was addressed. It was a great treat
to watch the face of Mr. Justice Hawkins
during the speech. When it was over, his
Lordship, without any sort of comment,
promptly sentenced the delinquent to penal
servitude for life ”; and thus, I may add,
dealt with him as he deserved.

Another important murder trial over which
Lord Brampton presided was that of the
poisoner, Neill Cream, a few years ago.

It is frequently a subject of debate in
legal circles as to whether and how far
evidence bearing only on motive, state of
mind, previous or subsequent conduct as
tending to prove system or guilt in the par¬
ticular case, can be given by the Crown on
the trial of a prisoner. It is too technical
a question to discuss here, but in Cream’s
case Lord Brampton admitted evidence of
subsequent administration of poison by the
prisoner to persons other than the woman
for whose murder he was then standing
his trial. There is no doubt that this
was a correct ruling; and in order to
illustrate the necessity of having occasionally
to try other issues than the main issue, in
order to establish the latter, the following
account may be given. Somewhere about
1880, a farmer living in Essex was awakened
one night by a noise in his courtyard. He
opened the window, and put out his head to
see who or what it was. As he did so, a
man outside discharged a gun full in his face
and killed him on the spot. The murderer
then broke and entered the house and stole
some valuables. He then disappeared, leav¬
ing no apparent clue. The next day a chisel
which had been used for the purpose of effect¬
ing an entrance was found in the farmhouse.
Some time after, a discharged gun was found

3 2 5

in a copse near the house. Inquiries were
set on foot, and it was found that the gun
had been stolen some weeks previously froni
another house in the neighbourhood, and,
strange to say, it was also ascertained that
the thief had in that case also left behind
him a chisel\ similar to the one found in the
farmhouse. The police then set to work to
find out where the chisels came from, and
they found that they had been stolen from a
blacksmith’s forge in a village near the farm¬
house. As the result of further inquiries, a
man was arrested, and was tried before Lord
Brampton at Chelmsford, for wilful murder.
The main issue, of course, was : “ Did the
prisoner kill and murder the farmer?” The
subordinate issues were: “ Did the prisoner
steal the gun? Did he steal the chisels?” If
be did, it was almost of itself conclusive of
his guilt. The jury found that he did steal
the gun, that he did steal the chisels, and
further that he did shoot at and murder the
farmer. The result was that the prisoner
was convicted, sentenced to death, and
executed, after a trial which was described
by the judge as “ highly satisfactory.”

Counsel frequently complain that—to
speak plainly—judges take sides, and they
argue that a judge’s duty is merely to preside
and take notes, and dispassionately sum up the
facts. This view I have myself on occasions
countenanced. Now, one of our strongest
judges was Lord Brampton ; and as his power
of marshalling facts was very great, he
has frequently been the subject of discussion.
Without entering into an analytical disqui¬
sition on the point, one thing is certain, and
that is that he always took the greatest care to
study the proof and effect of every alleged
fact before he dealt with any case, be it civil
or criminal. But when he dealt with it he
did so with an earnest desire to arrive at the
truth. He interfered with counsel as little as
possible, but was, of course, bound to prevent
them leading the jury off on a side issue, the
while they might well hesitate to approach the
main question. After all, a judge is a judge,
and should remember that he sits not to
perform the mechanical duties of an
automaton, but to see, to the best of his
ability, that justice is done.

Lord Brampton’s love of animals is well
known, and no article, even written from
a strict professional standpoint — such as
this is—would be complete without a refer¬
ence to his dog Jack, of whom Lord Brampton
wrote : “ I can say that a more intelligent,
faithful, and affectionate creature never had
existence, and to him I have been indebted

326

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

LORD BRAMPTON WHEN FIRST MADE A JUDGE,
From a Photo, by Maull & Vox.

for very many of the happiest years of my
life.”

Poor Jack is now no more, but his master
is faithful to his servant even in death.
None supplies his place. He was given to
Lord Brampton by his friend the late Lord
Falmouth, and after thirteen years’ close
• companionship, Lord Brampton felt his loss
very deeply. The mutual affection existing
between Jack and his master is not an un¬
faithful index to the character of Lord
Brampton.

During Lord Brampton’s career at the Bar
his success was remarkable. In the words of
Mr. Montagu Williams: “ He was not only
the greatest and most astute advocate of his
time in ordinary civil cases, but he had the
largest practice in compensation claims.”
And here, by the way, it may be mentioned

that he was retained to
defend in nearly all the
claims made by owners of
the property on which the
Royal Courts of Justice are
built.

His power of dealing with
every case before him was
at the Bar unrivalled: and
the imperturbable coolness,
the thoroughness, the great
personal individual force,
the lucidity, the persuasive¬
ness which he has ever
brought to bear on his
work, rendered him as
deadly an opponent and as
powerful a friend as could
be found in a Court of
Justice. In cross-examina¬
tion, his powers may be
described in the words of
the late Chief Baron Kelly,
which were spoken at a
dinner, soon after Lord
Brampton became a
judge :—

“ Of my friend Mr. Haw¬
kins, I can only say this :
that no man ever surpassed
and few have equalled him
as a cross-examiner; I place
him on a level with Garrow
and with Scarlett, whom no
one has ever excelled,” and
this re-echoes the opinion which those who.
knew Lord Brampton at the Bar universally
hold.

As a judge, he had his critics, but not
even the sourest would venture to assert that
as a lawyer he was not excellent. That he held
the scales of Justice evenly balanced between
party and party, and Queen and citizen, is as
well known as the most elementary axiom of
arithmetic.

One who knew him well wrote of him as
“the kindest man in the world where women,
children, and animals are concerned,” and
that description is true. Whatever may be
Lord Brampton’s faults he stands confessed
as an upright and fearless judge, and the
owner of a name which as long as records
last will always proudly shine forth from the
pages devoted to the great ones of the Law.

1876.

Hilda Wade.

By Grant Allen.

I.— THE EPISODE OF THE PATIENT WHO DISAPPOINTED HER DOCTOR.

ILL)A WADE’S gift was so
unique, so extraordinary, that
I must illustrate it, I think,
before I attempt to describe it.
But first let me say a word of
explanation about the Master.

I have never met anyone who impressed
me so much with a sense of greatness as
Professor Sebastian. And this was not due
to his scientific eminence alone : the man’s
strength and keenness struck me quite as
forcibly as his vast attain¬
ments. When he first
came to St. Nathaniel’s
Hospital, an eager, fiery-
eyed physiologist, well
past the prime of life,
and began to preach with
all the electric force of
his vivid personality that
the one thing on earth
worth a young man’s doing
was to work in his labora¬
tory, attend his lectures,
study disease, and be a
scientific doctor, dozens
of us were infected by
his contagious enthusiasm.

He proclaimed the gospel
of germs; and the germ
of his own zeal flew
abroad in the hospital :
it ran through the wards
as if it were typhoid fever.

Within a few months, half
the students were con¬
verted from lukewarm
observers of medical routine into flaming
apostles of the new methods.

The greatest authority in Europe on com¬
parative anatomy, now that Huxley was taken
from us, he had devoted his later days to the
pursuit of medicine proper, to which he
brought a mind stored with luminous analo¬
gies from the lower animals. His very
appearance held one. Tall, thin, erect, with
an ascetic profile not unlike Cardinal Man¬
ning’s, he represented that abstract form
of asceticism which consists in absolute
self-sacrifice to a mental ideal, not that
which consists in religious abnegation.
Three years of travel in Africa had tanned
his skin for life. His long white hair,
straight and silvery as it fell, just curled
in one wave-like inward sweep where it
turned and rested on the stooping shoulders.

His pale face was clean-shaven, save for a
thin and wiry grizzled moustache, which cast
into stronger relief the deep-set, hawk-like
eyes and the acute, intense, intellectual
features. In some respects, his countenance
reminded me often of Dr. Mariineau’s : in
others it recalled the knife-like edge, unturn-
able, of his great predecessor, Professor
Owen. Wherever he went, men turned to
stare at him. In Paris, they took him for
the head of the English Socialists : in Russia,
they declared he was a
Nihilist emissary. And
they were not far wrong—
in essence : for Sebastian’s
stern, sharp face was above
all things the face of a
man absorbed and en¬
grossed by one overpower¬
ing pursuit in life — the
sacred thirst of knowledge,
which had swallowed up
his entire nature.

He was what he looked
the most single-minded
person I have ever come
across. And when I say
single - minded, I mean
just that and no more.
He had an End to attain
- the advancement of
science, and he went
straight towards the End,
looking neither to the right
nor to the left for anyone.
An American millionaire
once remarked to him
of some ingenious appliance he was describ¬
ing, “ Why, if you were to perfect that
apparatus, Professor, and take out a patent
for it, I reckon you’d make as much money
as I have made.” Sebastian withered him
with a glance. “ I have no time to waste,”
he replied, “ on making money.”

So, when Hilda Wade told me, on the
first day I met her, that she wished to
become a nurse at Nathaniel’s, “ to be near
Sebastian,” I was not at all astonished. I
took her at her word. Everybody who
meant business in any branch of the medical
art, however humble, desired to be close
to our rare teacher—to drink in his large
thought, to profit by his clear insight, his
wide experience. The man of Nathaniel’s
was revolutionizing practice : and those who
wished to feel themselves abreast of the

PROFESSOR SEBASTIAN.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

328

modern movement were naturally anxious
to cast in their lot with him. I did not
wonder, therefore, that Hilda Wade, who
herself possessed in so large a measure the
deepest feminine gift—-intuition—should seek
a place under the famous professor who
represented the other side of the same
endowment in its masculine embodiment—
instinct of diagnosis.

Hilda Wade herself 1 will not formally
introduce to you : you will learn to know
her as I proceed with
my story.

I was Sebastian’s
assistant, and my recom¬
mendation soon pro¬
cured Hilda Wade the
post she so strangely
coveted. Before she
had been long at Nath¬
aniel’s, however, it began
to dawn upon me that
her reasons for desiring
to attend upon our
revered Master were not
wholly and solely scien¬
tific. Sebastian, it is
true, recognised her value
as a nurse from the first:
he not only allowed that
she was a good assistant,
but he also admitted
that her subtle know¬
ledge of temperament
sometimes enabled her
closely to approach his
own reasoned scientific
analysis of a case and its
probable development.

“ Most women,” he said
to me once, “are quick
at reading the passing
emotion: they can judge
with astounding correct¬
ness from a shadow on
one’s face, a catch in
one’s breath, a movement
of one’s hands, how their
words or deeds are
affecting us. We cannot
conceal our feelings from them. But under¬
lying character they do not judge so well as
fleeting expression. Not what Mrs. Jones is in
herself, but what Mrs. Jones is now thinking
and feeling— there lies their great success as
psychologists. Most men, on the contrary,
guide their life by definite facts —by signs, by
symptoms, by observed data. Medicine
itself is built upon a collection of such

reasoned facts. But this woman, Nurse
Wade, to a certain extent, stands intermediate
mentally between the two sexes. She recog¬
nises temperament —the fixed form of character
and what it is likely to do—in a degree which
I have never seen equalled elsewhere. To
that extent, and within proper limits of super¬
vision, I acknowledge her faculty as a valuable
adjunct to a scientific practitioner.”

Still, though Sebastian started with a pre¬
disposition in favour of Hilda Wade a
pretty girl appeals to
most of us — I could see
from the beginning that
Hilda Wade was by no
means enthusiastic for
Sebastian, like the rest
of the hospital. “ He
is extraordinarily able,”
she would say, when I
gushed to her about our
Master : but that was
the most I could ever
extort from her in the
way of praise. Though
she admitted intellectu¬
ally Sebastian’s gigantic
mind, she would never
commit herself to any¬
thing that sounded like
personal admiration. To
call him “ the prince of
physiologists,” did not
satisfy me on that head.
I wanted her to ex¬
claim, “ I adore him !
I worship him ! He is
glorious, wonderful ! ”

I was also aware from
an early date that, in an
unobtrusive way, Hilda
Wade was watching
Sebastian. Watching
him quietly, with those
wistful, earnest eyes, as
a cat watches a mouse¬
hole ; watching him with
mute inquiry, as if she
expected each moment
to see him do something
different from what the rest of us expected
of him. Slowly I gathered that Hilda
Wade, in the most literal sense, had come
to Nathaniel’s, as she herself expressed
it, “ to be near Sebastian.” Gentle and
lovable as she was in every other aspect,
towards Sebastian she seemed like a lynx-eyed
detective. She had some object in view, I
thought, almost as abstract as his own — some

HILDA WADE.

HILDA WADE .

3 2 9

object to which, as I judged, she was devoting
her life quite as single-mindedly as Sebastian
himself had devoted his to the advancement
of science.

“ Why did she become a nurse at all ? ” I
asked once of her friend, Mrs. Mallet. “ She
has plenty of money, and seems well enough
off to live without working.”

“Oh, dear, yes,” Mrs. Mallet answered.
“She is independent, quite; has a tidy little
income of her own—six or seven hundred a
year—and she could choose her own society.
But she went in for this mission fad early ;
she didn’t intend to marry, she said, so she
would like to have some work to do in life.
Girls suffer like that, nowadays. In her case,
the malady took the form of nursing.”

“As a rule,” I ventured to interpose,
“ when a pretty girl says she doesn’t intend
to marry, her remark is premature. It only
means-”

“ Oh, yes, I know. Every girl says it; ’tis
a stock property in the popular masque of
Maiden Modesty. But with Hilda it is
different. And the difference is—that Hilda
means it.”

“You are right,” I answered. “I believe
she means it. Yet I know one man at
least-” for I admired her immensely.

Mrs. Mallet shook her head and smiled.
“ It is no use, Dr. Cumberledge,” she
answered. “ Hilda will never marry. Never,
that is to say, till she has attained some
mysterious object she seems to have in
view, about which she never speaks to anyone
—not even to me. But I have somehow
guessed it.”

“ And it is ? ”

“ Oh, I have not guessed what it is; I am
no (Edipus : I have merely guessed that it
exists. But whatever it may be, Hilda’s life
is bounded by it. She became a nurse to
carry it out, I feel confident. From the very
beginning, I gather, part of her scheme was
to go to St. Nathaniel’s. She was always
bothering us to give her introductions to Dr.
Sebastian ; and when she met you at my
brother Hugo’s, it was a preconcerted
arrangement; she asked to sit next you, and
meant to induce you to use your influence on
her behalf with the Professor. She was dying
to get there.”

“ It is very odd,” I mused. “ But, there !
—women are inexplicable ! ”

“ And Hilda is in that matter the very
quintessence of woman. Even I, who have
known her for years, don’t pretend to under¬
stand her.”

A few months later Sebastian began his

Vol. xvii.—42.

great researches on his new anaesthetic. It
was a wonderful set of researches. It pro¬
mised so well. All Nat’s (as we familiarly
and affectionately style St. Nathaniel’s) was
in a fever of excitement over the drug for
a twelvemonth.

The Professor obtained his first hint of
the new body by a mere accident. His
friend the Deputy Prosector of the Zoologi¬
cal Society had mixed a draught for a sick
racoon at the Gardens, and, by some mistake
in a bottle, had mixed it wrongly. (I pur¬
posely refrain from mentioning the ingre¬
dients, as they are drugs which can be easily
obtained in isolation at any chemist’s, though
when compounded they form one of the
most dangerous and difficult to detect of
organic poisons. I do not desire to play
into the hands of would-be criminals.) The
compound on which the Deputy Prosector
had thus accidentally lighted sent the
racoon to sleep in the most extraordinary
manner. Indeed, the racoon slept for thirty-
six hours on end, all attempts to awake him
by pulling his tail or tweaking his hair being
quite unavailing. This was a novelty in
narcotics : so Sebastian was asked to come
and look at the slumbering brute. He sug¬
gested the attempt to perform an operation
on the somnolent racoon by removing, under
the influence of the drug, an internal growth,
which was considered the probable cause of
his illness. A surgeon was called in, the
growth was found and removed, and the
racoon, to everybody’s surprise, continued
to slumber peacefully on his straw for five
hours afterward. At the end of that time
he awoke and stretched himself, as if nothing
had happened; and though he was, of
course, very weak from loss of blood, he
immediately displayed a most royal hunger.
He ate up all the maize that was offered him
for breakfast, and proceeded to manifest
a desire for more by most unequivocal
symptoms.

Sebastian was overjoyed. He now felt
sure he had discovered a drug which would
supersede chloroform—a drug more lasting
in its immediate effects, and yet far less
harmful in its ultimate results on the balance
of the system. A name being wanted for it,
he christened it “lethodyne.” It was the
best pain-luller yet invented.

For the next few weeks, at Nat’s, we heard
of nothing but lethodyne. Patients recovered,
and patients died: but their deaths or
recoveries were as dross to lethodyne. An
anaesthetic that might revolutionize surgery,
and even medicine! A royal road through

33°

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

disease, with no trouble to the doctor and no
pain to the patient ! Lethodyne held the
field. We were all of us, for the moment,
intoxicated with lethodyne.

Sebastian’s observations on the new agent
occupied several months. He had begun
with the racoon : he went on, of course,
with those poor scapegoats of physiology,
domestic rabbits. Not that in this particular
case any painful experiments were in con¬
templation : the Professor tried the drug on
a dozen or more quite healthy young animals
—with the strange result that they dozed off
quietly, and never woke up again. This
nonplussed Sebastian. He experimented
once more on another racoon with a smaller
dose ; the racoon fell asleep and slept like a
top for fifteen hours, at the end of which
time he woke up as if nothing out of the
common had happened. Sebastian fell back
upon rabbits again, with smaller and smaller
doses. It was no good : the rabbits all
died with great unanimity, until the dose was

so diminished that it did not send them off
to sleep at all. There was no middle course :
apparently, to the rabbit kind, lethodyne was
either fatal or else inoperative. So it proved
to sheep. The new drug killed, or did
nothing.

I will not trouble you with all the details
of Sebastian’s further researches : the curious

will find them discussed at length in Volume
237 of the “ Philosophical Transactions.”
(See also “ Comptes Rendus de l’Academie
de Medecine”: tome 49,//. 72 and sequel.)

I will restrict myself here to that part of the
inquiry which immediately refers to Hilda
Wade’s history.

“ If I were you,” she said to the Professor
one morning, when he was most astonished
at his contradictory results, “ I would test it
on a hawk. If I dare venture on a suggestion,

I believe you will find that hawks recover.”

“ r Phe deuce they do ! ” Sebastian cried.
However, he had such confidence in Nurse
Wade’s judgment that he bought a couple of
hawks and tried the treatment on them.
Both birds took considerable doses, and,
after a period of insensibility extending to
several hours, woke up in the end quite
bright and lively.

“ I see your principle,” the Professor broke
out. “ It depends upon diet. Carnivores and
birds of prey can take lethodyne with
impunity: herbivores and
fruit-eaters cannot recover,
and die of it. Man, there¬
fore, being partly car¬
nivorous, will doubtless be
able more or less to stand
it.”

Hilda Wade smiled her
sphinx-like smile. “Not
quite that, I fancy,” she
answered. “Itwill kill cats,
I feel sure : at least, most
domesticated ones. But
it will not kill weasels. Yet
both are carnivores.”

“ That young woman
knows too much ! ” Sebas¬
tian muttered to me,
looking after her as she
glided noiselessly with her
gentle tread down the long
white corridor. “ We shall
have to suppress her,
Cumberledge. ... But
I’ll wager my life she’s
right, for all that. I
wonder, now, how the
dickens she guessed it! ”

“ Intuition,” I answered.

He pouted his under lip above the upper
one, with a dubious acquiescence. “ Infer¬
ence, I call it,” he retorted. “ All woman’s
so-called intuition is in fact just rapid and
half-unconscious inference.”

He was so full of the subject, however,
and so utterly carried away by his scientific

IT WAS NO GOOD I THE RABBITS ALL DIED.

HILDA WADE.

33 r

ardour, that I regret to say he gave a strong
dose of lethodyne at once to each of the
matron’s petted and pampered Persian
cats, which lounged about her room and
were the delight of the convalescents. They
were two peculiarly lazy sultanas of cats—
mere jewels of the harem—Oriental beauties
that loved to bask in the sun or curl them¬
selves up on the rug before the fire, and
dawdle away their lives in congenial idle¬
ness. Strange to say, Hilda’s prophecy
came true. Zuleika settled herself down
comfortably in the Professor’s easy chair,
and fell into a sound sleep from which
there was no awaking; while Roxana met
fate on the tiger-skin she loved, coiled up in
a circle, and passed from this life of dreams,
without knowing it, into one where dreaming
is not. Sebastian noted the facts with a
quiet gleam of satisfaction in his watchful
eye, and explained afterwards, with curt
glibness to the angry matron, that her
favourites had been “ canonized in the
roll of science, as painless martyrs to the
advancement of physiology.”

The weasels, on the other hand, with an
equal dose, woke up after six hours as lively
as crickets. It was clear that carnivorous
tastes were not the whole solution, for
Roxana was famed as a notable mouser.

“Your principle?” Sebastian asked our
sybil, in his brief, quick way.

Hilda’s cheek wore a glow of pardonable
triumph. The great teacher had deigned to
ask her assistance. “ I judged by the
analogy of Indian hemp,” she answered.
“ This is clearly a similar, but much stronger,
narcotic. Now, whenever I have given
Indian hemp by your direction to people of
sluggish or even of merely bustling tempera¬
ment, I have noticed that small doses produce
serious effects, and that the after-results are
most undesirable. But when you have pre¬
scribed the hemp for nervous, overstrung,
imaginative people, I have observed that they
can stand large amounts of the tincture
without evil results, and that the after-effects
pass off rapidly. I, who am mercurial in
temperament, for example, can take any
amount of Indian hemp without being made
ill by it, while ten drops will send some slow
and torpid rustics mad drunk with excitement
—drive them at once into homicidal mania.”

Sebastian nodded his head. He needed
no more explanation. “ You have hit it,” he
said. “ I see it at a glance. The old
antithesis! All men and all animals fall,
roughly speaking, into two great divisions of
type: the impassioned and the unimpassioned,

the vivid and the phlegmatic. I catch your
drift now. Lethodyne is poison to phleg¬
matic patients, who have not active power
enough to wake up from it unhurt : it is
relatively harmless to the vivid and impas¬
sioned, who can be put asleep by it, indeed,
for a few hours more or less, but are alive
enough to live on through the coma and
reassert their vitality after it.”

I recognised as he spoke that this explana¬
tion was correct the dull rabbits, the sleepy
Persian cats, and the silly sheep had died
outright of lethodyne : the cunning, inquisi¬
tive racoon, the quick hawk, and the active,
intense-natured weasels, all most eager, wary,
and alert animals, full of keenness and
passion, had recovered quickly.

“ Dare we try it on a human subject ? ” I
asked, tentatively.

Hilda Wade answered at once with that
unerring rapidity of hers, “Yes, certainly ; on
a few—the right persons. 7 , for one, am not
afraid to try it.”

“You?” I cried, feeling suddenly aware
how much I thought of her. “Oh, not you,
please, Nurse Wade. Some other life—less
valuable ! ”

Sebastian stared at me coldly. “ Nurse
Wade volunteers,” he said. “ It is in the
cause of science. Who dares dissuade her ?
That tooth of yours ? Ah, yes. Quite
sufficient excuse. You wanted it out, Nurse
Wade. Wells-Dinton shall operate.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Hilda Wade
sat down in an easy chair, and took a
measured dose of the new anaesthetic pro¬
portioned to the average difference in weight
between racoons and humanity. My face
displayed my anxiety I suppose, for she
turned to me, smiling, with quiet confidence.

“ I know my own constitution,” she said, with
a reassuring glance that went straight to my
heart. “ I do not in the least fear.”

As for Sebastian, he administered the drug
to her as unconcernedly as if she were a
rabbit. Sebastian’s scientific coolness and
calmness have long been the admiration of
younger practitioners.

Wells - Dinton gave one wrench. The
tooth came out as though the patient were
a block of marble. There was not a cry
or a movement, such as one notes when
nitrous oxide is administered. Hilda Wade
was to all appearance a mass of lifeless
flesh. We stood round and watched. I
was trembling with terror. Even on
Sebastian’s pale face, usually so unmoved
save by the watchful eagerness of scientific
curiosity, I saw signs of anxiety.

33 2 THE STRAND

After four hours of profound slumber-—
breath hovering, as it seemed, between life
and death—she began to come to again.

In half an hour more she was wide awake;
she opened her eyes and asked for a glass of
hock, with beef essence or oysters.

That evening, by six o’clock, she was quite
well, and able to go about her duties as
usual.

“ Sebastian is a wonderful man,” I said to
her, as I entered her ward ‘on my rounds at
night. “ His coolness astonishes me. Do
you know, he watched you all the time you
were lying asleep there as if nothing were the
matter.”

“Coolness?” she inquired, in a quiet
voice. “ Or cruelty ? ”

“Cruelty?” I echoed, aghast. “Sebastian
cruel! Oh, Nurse Wade, what an idea!
Why, he has spent his whole life in striving
against all odds to alleviate pain. He is the
apostle of philanthropy ! ”

“ Of philanthropy, or of science ? To
alleviate pain, or to learn the whole truth
about the human
body ? ”

“ Come, come
now,”. I cried.

“You analyze too
far. I will not let
even you put me
out of conceit with
Sebastian.” (Her
face flushed at that
“ eve 7 i yon”; I
almost fancied she
began to like me.)

“ He is the enthu¬
siasm of my life:
just consider how
much he has done
for humanity ! ”

She looked me
through, search-
ingly. “ I will
not destroy your illusion,” she answered,
after a pause. “ It is a noble and generous
one. But is it not largely based on an
ascetic face, long white hair, and a moustache
that hides the cruel corners of the mouth ?
For the corners are cruel. Some day, I will
show you them. Cut off the long hair, shave
the grizzled moustache—and what then will
remain ? ” She drew a profile hastily. “ Just
that,” and she showed it me. ’Twas a face
like Robespierre’s, grown harder and older,
and lined with observation. I recognised
that it was in fact the essence of Sebastian.

Next day, as it turned out, the Professor

MAGAZINE.

himself insisted upon testing lethodyne in
his own person. All Nat’s strove to dissuade
him. “Your life is so precious, sir: the
advancement of science ! ” But the Professor
was adamantine.

“Science can only be advanced if men of
science will take their lives in their hands,”
he answered, sternly. “ Besides, Nurse
Wade has tried. Am I to lag behind a
woman in my devotion to the cause of
physiological knowledge ? ”

“ Let him try,” Hilda Wade murmured to
me. “ He is quite right. It will not hurt
him. I have told him already he has just
the proper temperament to stand the drug.
Such people are rare : he is one of them.”

We administered the dose, trembling.^
Sebastian took it like a man and dropped off
instantly, for lethodyne is at least as instanta¬
neous in its operation as nitrous oxide.

He lay long asleep. Hilda and I watched
him.

After he had lain for some minutes sense¬
less, like a log, on the couch where we had
placed him, Hilda stooped over him quietly
and lifted up the ends of the grizzled
moustache. Then she pointed one accusing
finger at his lips. “I told you so,” she
murmured, with a note of demonstration.

“There is certainly something rather stern
or even ruthless about the set of the face
and the firm ending of the lips,” I admitted,
reluctantly.

“That’is why God gave men moustaches,”
she mused, in a low voice; “to hide the
cruel corners of their mouths.”

“ HE LAY LONG ASLEEP.

HILDA WADE,

333

“Not always cruel,” I cried.

“ Sometimes cruel, sometimes cunning,
sometimes sensuous; but nine times out of
ten, best masked by moustaches.”

“You have a bad opinion of our sex !” I
exclaimed.

“Providence knew best,” she answered.
“It gave you moustaches. That was in
order that we women might be spared from
always seeing you as you are. Besides, I
said ‘ Nine times out of ten.’ There are ex¬
ceptions —such exceptions ! ”

On second thought, I did not feel sure
that I could quarrel with her estimate.

The experiment was that time once more
successful. Sebastian woke up from the
comatose state after eight hours, not quite as
fresh as Hilda Wade, perhaps, but still toler¬
ably alive, less alert, however, and complain¬
ing of dull headache. He was not hungry.
Hilda Wade shook her head at that. “ It
will be of use only in a very few cases,” she
said to me, regretfully; “ and those few will
need to be carefully picked by an acute
observer. I see resistance to the coma is,
even more than I thought, a matter of
temperament. Why, so impassioned a man
as the Professor himself cannot entirely
recover. With more sluggish temperaments,
we shall have deeper difficulty.”

“ Would you call him impassioned ? ” I
asked. “ Most people think him so cold
and stern.”

She shook her head. “ He is a snow¬
capped volcano,” she answered. . “ The fires
of his life burn bright below. The exterior
alone is cold and placid.”

However, starting from that time, Sebastian
began a course of experiments on patients,
giving infinitesimal doses at first, and
venturing slowly on somewhat larger
quantities. But only in his own case and
Hilda’s could the result be called quite
satisfactory. One dull and heavy, drink-
sodden navvy, to whom he administered no
more than one-tenth of a grain, was drowsy
for a week, and listless long after; while a
fat washerwoman from West Ham, who took
only two-tenths, fell so fast asleep, and snored
so stertorously, that we feared she was going
to doze off into eternity, after the fashion of
the rabbits. Mothers of large families, we
noted, stood the drug very ill: on pale
young girls of the consumptive tendency its
effect was not marked : but only a patient
here and there of exceptionally imaginative
and vivid temperament seemed able to
endure it. Sebastian was discouraged. He
saw the anaesthetic was not destined to

fulfil his first enthusiastic humanitarian
expectations.

One day, while the investigation was just
at this stage, a case was admitted into the
observation-cots in which Hilda Wade took a
particular interest. The patient was a young
girl named Isabel Huntley—tall, dark, and
slender, a markedly quick and imaginative
type, with large black eyes which clearly
bespoke a passionate nature. Though dis¬
tinctly hysterical, she was pretty and pleasing.
Her rich, dark hair was as copious as it was
beautiful. She held herself erect, and had
a finely poised head. From the first moment
she arrived, I could see Nurse Wade was
strongly drawn towards her. Their souls
sympathized. Number Fourteen — that is
our impersonal way of describing cases —was
constantly on Hilda’s lips. “ I like the girl,”
she said once. “ She is a lady in fibre.”

“ And a tobacco-trimmer by trade,” Sebas¬
tian added, sarcastically.

As usual, Hilda’s was the truer descrip¬
tion. It went deeper.

Number Fourteen’s ailment was a rare
and peculiar one, into which I need not
enter here with professional precision. (I
have described the case fully for my brother
practitioners in my paper in the fourth volume
of Sebastian’s “ Medical Miscellanies.”) It
will be enough for my present purpose to
say in brief that the lesion consisted of an
internal growth, which is always dangerous
and most often fatal, but which nevertheless
is of such a character that if it be once
happily eradicated by supremely good surgery
it never tends to recur, and leaves the
patient as strong and well as ever. Sebastian
was, of course, delighted with the splendid
opportunity thus afforded him. “ It is a
beautiful case ! ” he cried, with professional
enthusiasm. “ Beautiful ! Beautiful ! I
never saw one so deadly or so malignant
before. We are indeed in luck’s way. Only
a miracle can save her life. Cumberledge,
we must proceed to perform the miracle.”

Sebastian loved such cases. They formed
his ideal. He did not greatly admire the
artificial prolongation of diseased and un¬
wholesome lives which could never be of
much use to their owners or anyone else ;
but when a chance occurred for restoring to
perfect health a valuable existence which
might otherwise be extinguished before its
time, he positively revelled in his beneficent
calling. “ What nobler object can a man
propose to himself,” he used to say, “than
to raise good men and true from the dead, as
it were, and return them whole and sound to

334

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE.

the family that depends upon them ? Why,
I had fifty times rather cure an honest coal-
heaver of a wound in his leg than give ten
years more lease of life to a gouty lord,
diseased from top to toe, who expects to find
a month of Carlsbad or Homburg once every
year make up for eleven months of over¬
eating, over-drinking, vulgar debauchery, and
under-thinking.” He had no sympathy with
men who lived the lives of swine: his heart
was with the workers.

Of course, Hilda Wade soon suggested
that, as an operation was absolutely necessary,
Number Fourteen would be a splendid sub¬
ject on whom to test once more the effects of
lethodyne. Sebastian, with his head on one
side, surveying the patient, promptly coin¬
cided. “ Nervous diathesis,” he observed.
“Very vivid fancy. Twitches her hands the
right way. Quick pulse, rapid perceptions,
no meaningless unrest, but deep vitality. I
don’t doubt she’ll stand it.”

We explained to Number Fourteen the
gravity of the case, and also the tentative
character of the operation under lethodyne.
At first, she shrank from taking it. “ No,
no,” she said, “let me die quietly.” But
Hilda, like the Angel of Mercy that she was,
whispered in the girl’s ear, “ If it succeeds,
you will get quite well, and—you can marry
Arthur.”

The patient’s dark face flushed crimson.

“ Ah, Arthur,” she cried. “ Dear Arthur !
I can bear anything you choose to do to
me—for Arthur ! ”

“ How soon you find these things out! ”
I cried to Hilda a few minutes later. “A
mere man would never have thought of
that. And who is Arthur?”

“A sailor—on a ship that
trades with the South Seas. I
hope he is worthy of her.

Fretting over Arthur’s absence
has aggravated the case. He
is homeward-bound now. She
is worrying herself to death, for
fear she should not live to
say good-bye to him.”

“She will live to marry him,”

I answered, with confidence
like her own, “ if you say she
can stand it.”

“The lethodyne — oh, yes,
that's all right. But the opera
tion itself is so extremely
dangerous. Though Dr. Sebas¬
tian says he has called in the
best surgeon in London for
all such cases—they are rare,

he tells me—and Nielsen has performed on
six, three of them successfully.”

We gave the girl the drug. She took it,
trembling, and went off at once, holding
Hilda’s hand, with a pale smile on her face,
which persisted there somewhat weirdly
all through the operation. The work of re¬
moving the growth was long and ghastly, even
for us who were well seasoned to such sights,
but at the end Nielsen expressed himself as
perfectly satisfied. “ A very neat piece of
work ! ” Sebastian exclaimed, looking on. “ I
congratulate you, Nielsen. I never saw any¬
thing done cleaner or better.”

“ A successful operation, certainly ! ” the
great surgeon admitted, with just pride in
the Master’s commendation.

“ And the patient ? ” Hilda asked, wavering.

“ Oh, the patient ? The patient will die,”
Nielsen replied, in an unconcerned voice,
wiping his spotless instruments.

“ That is not my idea of the medical art,”
I cried, shocked at his callousness. “ An
operation is only successful if-”

He regarded me with lofty scorn. “A
certain percentage of losses,” he interrupted,
calmly, “is inevitable, of course, in all
surgical operations. We are obliged to
average it. How could I preserve my pre¬
cision and accuracy of hand if I were always
bothered by sentimental considerations of
the patient’s safety ? ”

Hilda Wade glanced up at me with a sympa¬
thetic glance. “ We will pull her through yet,”
she murmured, in her soft voice, “if care
and skill can do it. My care and your skill.
This is now our patient, Dr. Cumberledge.”

It needed care and skill. We watched her
for hours, and she showed no sign oi gleam

SHE SHOWED NO SIGN OF RECOVERY.”

HILDA WADE.

335

of recovery. Her sleep was deeper than
either Sebastian’s or Hilda’s had been. She
had taken a big dose, so as to secure im¬
mobility : the question now was, would she
recover at all from it ? Hour after hour we
waited, and watched : and not a sign of move¬
ment ! Only the same deep, slow, hampered
breathing, the same feeble, jerky pulse, the
same deathly pallor on the dark cheeks, the
same corpse-like rigidity of limb and muscle.

At last, our patient stirred faintly as in a
dream ; her breath faltered. We bent over
her. Was it death, or was she beginning to
recover ?

Very slowly, a faint trace of colour came
back to her cheeks. Her heavy eyes half
opened. They stared first with a white
stare. Her arms dropped by her side. Her
mouth relaxed its ghastly smile. . . . We
held our breath. . . . She was coming to
again !

But her coming to was slow—very, very
slow. Her pulse was still weak. Her heart
pumped feebly. We feared she might sink
from inanition at any moment. Hilda Wade
knelt on the floor by the girl’s side and held
a spoonful of beef essence coaxingly to her
lips. Number Fourteen gasped, drew a long,
slow breath, then gulped and swallowed it.
After that, she lay back with her mouth
open, looking Tike a corpse. Hilda pressed
another spoonful of the soft jelly upon her:
but the girl waved it away with one trembling
hand. “Let me die,” she cried. “Let me
die ! I feel dead already.”

Hilda held her face close. “ Isabel,” she
whispered—and I recognised in her tone the
vast moral difference between “ Isabel ” and
“Number Fourteen.” “Is-a-bel,you must take
it. For Arthur’s sake, I say, you must take it.”

The girl’s hand quivered as it lay on the
white coverlet. “ For Arthur’s sake ! ” she
murmured, lifting her eyelids dreamily.
“ For Arthur’s sake ! Yes, nurse', dear ! ”

“ Call me Hilda, please ! Hilda ! ”

The girl’s face lighted up again. “ Yes,
Hilda, dear,” she answered, in an unearthly
voice, like one raised from the dead. “ I
will call you what you will. Angel of Light,
you have been so good to me.”

She opened her lips with an effort, and
slowly swallowed another spoonful. Then
she fell back, exhausted. But her pulse
improved within twenty minutes.

I mentioned the matter, with enthusiasm,
to Sebastian later. “ It is- very nice in its
way,” he answered• “ but . . .'.'it is not
nursing.”

I thought to myself that that was just what

it was: but I did not say so. Sebastian was
a man who thought meanly of women: “A
doctor, like a priest,” he used to declare,
“ should keep himself unmarried. His bride
is medicine.” And he disliked to see what
he called philandering going on in his
hospital. It may have been on that account
that I avoided speaking much of Hilda Wade
thenceforth before him.

He looked in casually next day to see the
patient. “ She will die,” he said, with perfect
assurance, as we passed down the ward
together. “ Operation has taken too much
out of her.”

“ Still, she has great recuperative powers,”
Hilda answered. “They all have in her
family, Professor. You may, perhaps, re¬
member Joseph Huntley, who occupied
Number Sixty-seven in the Accident Ward
some nine months since—compound fracture
of the arm—a dark, nervous engineer’s
assistant—very hard to restrain—well, he
was her brother: he caught typhoid in the
hospital, and you commented at the time
on his strange vitality. Then there was her
cousin, again, Ellen Stubbs—we had her for
stubborn chronic laryngitis—a very bad case
—anyone else would have died—yielded
at once to your treatment, and made, I
recollect, a splendid convalescence.”

“ What a memory you have ! ” Sebastian
cried, admiring against his will. “ It is simply
marvellous ! I never saw anyone like you in
my life . . . except once. He was a man, a
doctor, a colleague of mine—dead long ago.

. . . Why-” he mused, and gazed hard at

her. Hilda shrank before his gaze. “This
is curious,” he went on slowly, at last. “ Very '
curious. You—-why, you resemble him.”

“ Do I ? ” Hilda replied, with forced calm,
raising her eyes to his. Their glances met.
That moment, I saw each had recognised
something ; and from that day forth I was in¬
stinctively aware that a duel was being waged
between Sebastian and Hilda. A duel
between the two ablest and most singular
personalities I had ever met. A duel of life
and death—though I did not fully understand
its purport till much, much later.

Every day after that, the poor, wasted girl
in Number Fourteen grew feebler and fainter.
Her temperature rose ; her heart throbbed
weakly. She seemed to be fading away.
Sebastian shook his head. “ Lethodyne is a
failure,” he said, with a mournful regret.

“ One cannot trust it. The case might have
recovered from the operation, or recovered
from the drug; but she could not recover
from both together. Yet the operation

336

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“their glances met.”

would have been impossible without the
drug; and the drug is useless except for the
operation.”

It was a great disappointment to him. He
hid himself in his room, as was his wont when
disappointed, and went on with his old work
at his beloved microbes.

“ I have one hope still,” Hilda murmured
to me by the bedside when our patient was
at her worst. “ If one contingency occurs, I
believe we may save her.”

“ What is that ? ” I asked.

She shook her head waywardly. “ You
must wait and see,” she answered. “If it
comes off, I will tell you. If not, let it swell
the limbo of lost inspirations.”

Next morning early, however, she came up
to me with a radiant face, holding a news¬
paper in her hand. “Well, it has happened!”
she cried, rejoicing. “ We shall save poor
Isabel—Number Fourteen, I mean ; our way
is clear, Dr. Cumberledge.”

I followed her blindly to the bedside, little
guessing what she could mean. She knelt
down at the head of the cot. The girl’s eyes
were closed : I touched her cheek : she was
in a high fever. “Temperature?” I asked.

“ A hundred and three.”

I shook my head. Every symptom of
fatal relapse. I could not imagine what card
Hilda held in reserve. But J stood there,
waiting.

She whispered in the girl’s ear *.

“ Arthur’s ship is sighted off the
Lizard.”

The patient opened her eyes slowly,
and rolled them for a moment as if
she did not understand.

“Too late ! ” I cried. “Too late !
She is delirious—insensible ! ”

Hilda repeated the words slowly,
but very distinctly. “ Do you hear,
dear? Arthur’s ship .... it is
sighted. . . . Arthur’s ship ... at
the Lizard.”

The girl’s lips moved. “ Arthur !
Arthur ! . . . . Arthur’s ship ! A
deep sigh. She clenched her hands.
“ He is coming ? ” Hilda nodded
and smiled, holding her breath with
suspense.

“Up the Channel now. He will
be at Southampton to-night. Arthur
. . . . at Southampton. It is here,
in the papers. I have telegraphed
to him to hurry on at once to see
you.”

She struggled up for a second. A
smile flitted across the worn face.
Then she fell back wearily.

I thought all was over. Her eyes stared
white. But ten minutes later she opened
her lids again. “Arthur is coming,” she
murmured. “Arthur .... coming.”

“Yes, dear. Now sleep. He is coming.”

All through that day and the next night
she was restless and agitated; but still, her
pulse improved a little. Next morning, she
was again a trifle better. Temperature
falling—a hundred and one, point three. At
ten o’clock Hilda came in to her, radiant.

“Well, Isabel, dear,” she cried, bending
down and touching her cheek (kissing is
forbidden by the rules of the house).
“ Arthur has come. He is here .... down
below .... I have seen him.”

“ Seen him ! ” the girl gasped.

“ Yes, seen him. Talked with him. Such a
nice, manly fellow, and such an honest, good
face ! He is longing for you to get well.
He says he has come home this time to
marry you.”

The wan lips quivered. “ He will never
marry me!”

“ Yes, yes, he will— if you will take this
jelly. Look here—he wrote these words to
you before my very eyes : 4 Dear love to
my Isa!’.... If you are good and will
sleep he may see you—to-morrow.”

The girl opened her lips and ate the jelly
greedily. She ate as much as she was desired.

HILDA WADE.

337

In three minutes more
her head had fallen like
a child's upon her pillow,
and she was sleeping
peacefully.

I went up to Sebastian’s
room, quite excited with
the news. He was busy
among his bacilli. They
were his hobby, his pets.
“ Well, what do you think,
Professor?” I cried.
“That patient of Nurse
Wade’s-”

Pie gazed up at me
abstractedly, his brow con¬
tracting. “Yes, yes; I
know,” he interrupted.
“The girl in Fourteen.
I have discounted her
case long ago. She has
ceased to interest me. . . .
♦Dead, of course ! Nothing
else was possible.”

I laughed a quick little
laugh of triumph. “ No,
sir ; not dead. Recovering !
She has fallen just now
into a normal sleep ; her
breathing is natural.”

SHE OUGHT TO HAVE DIED.”

He wheeled his revolving chair away from
the germs, and fixed me with his keen eyes.
“Recovering?” he echoed. “Impossible!
Rallying, you mean. A mere flicker. I know
my trade. She must die this evening.”

“ Forgive my persistence,” I replied ; “ but
—her temperature has gone down to ninety-
nine and a trifle.”

He pushed away the bacilli in the nearest
watch-glass quite angrily. “ To ninety-nine ! ”
he exclaimed, knitting his brows. “ Cumber-
ledge, this is disgraceful ! A most dis¬
appointing case ! A most provoking
patient! ”

“ But surely, sir-” I cried.

“ Don’t talk to me, boy ! Don’t attempt
to apologize for her. Such conduct is un¬
pardonable. She ought to have died. It
was her clear duty. I said she would die,
and she should have known better than to
fly in the face of the faculty. Her recovery
is an insult to medical science. What is the
staff about? Nurse Wade should have pre¬
vented it.”

“ Still, sir,” I exclaimed, trying to touch
him on a tender spot, “the anaesthetic, you
know ! Such a triumph for lethodyne ! This
case shows clearly that on certain constitu¬
tions it may be used with advantage under
certain conditions.”

He snapped his fingers. “ Lethodyne !
pooh ! I have lost interest in it. Impracti¬
cable ! It is not fitted for the human
species.”

“ Why so? Number Fourteen proves—

He interrupted me with an impatient wave
of his hand : then he rose and paced up and
down the room testily. After a pause he
spoke again. “The weak point of lethodyne
is this: nobody can be trusted to say when
it may be used—except Nurse Wade. Which
is not science.”

For the first time in my life, I had a
glimmering idea that I distrusted Sebastian.
Hilda Wade was right—the man was cruel.
But I had never observed his cruelty before
—because his devotion to science had
blinded me to it.

Vol. xvii.—43.

Pigs of Celebrities.

By Gertrude Bacon.

HERE is ever a fascination in
collections, and ours is, per¬
haps, a more essentially col¬
lecting age than any other.
We collect all the things that
our forefathers used to—pic¬
tures, books, plate, and other articles of
vertu ; and we have added to them a number
of quite new ideas of our own—stamps,
post-cards, railway-tickets, buttons, and what
not, whose chief value would appear to lie in
their strange character and utter uselessness.

But now, as always, the palm of collections
is universally accorded to those of personal
relics of the great, and the fact that these are
hard to come by only enhances their value ;
which value too is immensely increased on
the death of the original owners. Very often
indeed it is then only that they acquire any
worth at all. For example, Lord Nelson’s
coat may now be well-nigh priceless, may
form a worthy gift to the Sovereign herself;
while the coats that the great sailor gave
away during his lifetime descended to the
rag-man in natural course, as those of his
humblest lieutenant. This is one of the
difficulties in the way of those who would
fain form collections of mementos of yet
living celebrities, and to the great majority
of these, as in past days, the only course
open is autograph-hunting.

Autographs possess certainly a very great
advantage over many other souvenirs. They
are lasting, they are portable, and they are
eminently characteristic, which is more than
can be said of snuff-boxes and old clothes.
They, moreover, lie more or less within the
reach of those whose worldly means may not
be great, but who possess a fair amount of
perseverance and self-assurance. The name
of these is legion, as every celebrity knows
only to his cost, and we may well believe
that the information regarding autograph-
hunters, which might be supplied by dis¬
tinguished people, would be not only
extremely interesting, but also somewhat
startling in its nature.

Of course, there are various species of
autograph collections. There is the auto¬
graphed book, with “ the author’s compli¬
ments ” on the fly-leaf. This is particularly

attractive and valuable, and not to be lightly
come by; but then all geniuses are not
literary men, any more than all literary men
are geniuses. There is likewise the auto¬
graphed photograph, most delightful form of
all, for besides perpetuating the face as well
as the handwriting, its possession usually in¬
dicates a certain amount of personal friend¬
ship between giver and receiver. The follow¬
ing pages are intended to show yet another
variety that the collection may assume, and
which, among other advantages, may, at
least, claim for itself a share of novelty and
originality.

It consists, in short, of a number of draw¬
ings of that familiar animal the pig, drawn
with the eyes shut, by leading representatives
of science, art, literature, society, etc., whose
world-wide renown is only equalled by their
ready kindness and courtesy in ministering
to the pleasure and benefit of those around
them, and their exceeding indulgence in
yielding to an audacious request. The idea,
of course, originates in the old drawing-room
game, though as a bona-fide collection is less
often seen than its obvious advantages would
seem to warrant.

Carlyle says that, given a hero, or in other
words a genius, it is only a question of his
environment whether he will develop “ into
a poet, prophet, King, priest, or what you
will.” The vital spark is there, and will
assert itself, no matter into what lines it
falls. In a similar manner, granted a man
of genius and strong personality, then every¬
thing about him and every action, however
slight, he performs will bear the unmistak¬
able imprint of his great characteristic. It is
no hard task to read a man’s character in his
face, but, as has been before exemplified in
these pages, it is equally possible to do so
from his hands and ears. To those who
make a study of calligraphy it seems that the
handwriting affords an index to character to
be almost implicitly relied on, and to these
students, as well as in a lesser degree the
casual observer, a glance at the drawings
which accompany these words will, I think,
sufficiently satisfy them that, in an almost
greater degree, the blindfold pigs exemplify
the teaching of the autographs below.

PIGS OP CELEBRITIES.

339

that he has consented to draw a
pig at all is only another proof
that, besides one of the bravest,
he is likewise among the most
courteous of men.

Equally distinctive is the pig of
Sir Francis Jeune. Its judicial
characteristics are apparent to
all, even without the aid of the

LORD ROBERTS S PIG.

Take the first specimen for example, which
Lord Roberts so graciously consented to draw
for this article. Is it possible to conceive an
animal more endowed with the martial spirit
of its noble artist ? It
is essentially and above
all a fighting pig. Note
the firmly planted feet,
the aggressively forward
sloping ears, the quick
eye, the stubborn, deter¬
mined face, and pug¬
nacious tail. The whole
attitude is instinct with
pluck and defiance.

This animal is “game”
to the last; he has also
undoubtedly “ got his
back up.” That Lord
Roberts has paid par¬
ticular and unusual
attention to the “trot¬
ters ” indicates a careful
and observant eye, a
keen sense of what is right and fitting, and an
untiring attention to details, while the fact

LADY JEUNF.’S PIG,

familiar initials beneath. It is in all respects
a “ carefully balanced ” animal, and there is
no mistaking the shrewdness and penetration
of the eye. There is
no wandering from the
point, no unnecessary
digressions and flour¬
ishes. The very gait
suggests the even
course of justice, not
prone to jump to rash
conclusions, not to be
unduly hastened, but
with patient and cau¬
tious footsteps progress¬
ing slowly and surely
and impartially to the
goal of equity and
truth.

The companion draw¬
ing is by the famous
judge’s equally famous
wife. Those among
Lady Jeune’s admirers (and who are they who
do not reckon themselves in that great army ?)
will welcome its presence as a fresh
instance of her ladyship’s never-failing
kindness and graciousness; while re¬
cognising in it indications of those
social and intellectual gifts that render
her alike the model hostess, the leader
of society, the greatest authority on every

branch of
wo m e n’s
life and
work, and
the prime
mover in
every good
scheme for
the ameli-

340

THE S EE AND MAGAZINE.

oration and benefit of her poorer neigh¬
bours. A peculiarity about this animal,
shared only by Professor Ramsay’s, is that
it turns its head to the right, the reverse
position to that naturally given to a pig
when drawn with the right hand.

The kindness of the Bishop of Brechin
in allowing his pig to adorn these pages
will be appreciated by all. The popular
and revered Primus of Scotland displays
in his drawing those kindly and genial
traits which have endeared him to all
throughout an active and varied career.

Turn we now to the “pig scientific,”

V, A

luckily represented in the two great branches
of Astronomy and Chemistry, by Sir Robert
Ball and Professor Ramsay. The renowned
astronomer, author, lecturer, and most genial
of men draws us a pig, in which he himself
would be the first to trace its Irish ante¬
cedents. The keen eye of the star-gazer is
there, and the fine, tapering snout that
indicates the man of letters. Sir Robert

flENEtii

SIR ROBERT BALIAS PIG.

seems to have forgotten the ears, as, too,
oddly enough, has Sir Francis Jeune, a
curious omission in his case, for if justice be
blind it is certainly not deaf.

The extreme excellence of Professor
Ramsay’s pig leads one almost to the
suspicion that the great chemist had a corner
of one eye open when he drew it, or else
possessed a Rontgen-ray-like power of seeing
through closed lids; but in this 1 may be
doing him injustice. That his animal
possesses a most fascinating personality no
one will deny. There are indications of
extreme modesty about the lowered head,
downward sloping ears, and half-shut eye,
while a capacity for taking infinite pains,
minute attention to details, and the power of
laborious research is as plainly evident in
the talented little sketch as in the famous
discoverer of Argon, Krypton, and the other
rare constituents of the atmosphere himself.

sir henry irving’s pig.

Again, in the “ pig histrionic ” what can be
more apparent than the tragic tendency it
has unconsciously received from the hand of
the greatest of tragedians ? Sir Henry Irving
has instilled a pathos and despair into the
expression of his pig that the jocund and

1’ICS OF CELEBRITIES.

34i

SIR JOHN TENNIEL’S PIG.

light-hearted animal can scarcely display
in real life. But to Sir Henry himself it is

“ It may be

A Cm*.

the tail that appeals most.
vanity/ 5 he writes, “ but I
cannot help regarding it as
a masterpiece/ 5 and in this
opinion admiring and grate¬
ful beholders will readily
acquiesce.

An unfortunate diffidence
has robbed this article of
another famous actor’s pig,

Mr. Wyndham writing in
response to an appeal that
he “ cannot draw with his
eyes open, let alone if they
were closed. 55 Sir Evelyn Wood too re¬
plied in almost the same words. These
. gentlemen unfortunately did not know
that the less capable you are of draw¬
ing a pig with eyes open the better one
you will probably produce with eyes shut.
An ardent collector will never accept as an
excuse an alleged incapacity for drawing.
Very frequently the objector possesses a
latent talent which he either conceals from
modesty or else is unconscious of; and in
any case the chances are that he will produce
an animal that will surprise him very much
by its excellence.

Certain it is that, the better a man draws,
the harder work it is to coax a pig out of
him. To get a blindfold pig from a cele¬
brated artist is rare indeed, and I doubt
whether an R.A. has ever been known to
draw one. We may feel the more grateful,
then, to that famous veteran, Sir John
Tenniel, for his unexampled goodness in
giving us a specimen from his own unrivalled

DR. CONAN DOYLE S PIG.

pencil. It is the work of an
artist, indeed, and even Sir John
himself seems rather proud of it;
for he writes : “I have much
pleasure in sending you my
picture of a £ Piggee/ drawn in
pencil (blindfold), and duly
signed. The result, as I need
hardly say, fills me with wonder
and admiration. It is simply an
amazi x\gfluke” He further adds
that he will never attempt another,
but we will venture to disagree
with him as to the fluke, believing
that whatever comes from that
deft pen will inevitably be the
best possible.

Turning to the “pig literary/ 5
he must be wanting in imagina¬
tion indeed who fails to trace
in Dr. Conan Doyle’s spirited little sketch
the resemblance to the immortal and
lamented Sherlock Holmes. That pig is
evidently “ on the scent 55 of
some baffling mystery. Note
the quick and penetrating
snout, the alert ears, thrown
back in the act of listening,
the nervous, sensitive tail,
and the expectant, eager
attitude. The spirit of the
great detective breathes in
every line and animates the
whole.

Nor is the indication of
patient and deep research,
literary skill, and subtle imagination less
apparent in the animal Sir Walter Besant
has favoured us with. The absence of the

S'.

SIR WALTER BESANT S PIG.

342

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

second ear is, doubtless, to be accounted for
by its being directly behind the other.

On the contrary, the ears drawn by Sir
Frederick Bridge are both well
defined. This, of course, is only
what would be looked for in the
animal of a composer. Note the
deep-set eye. That in a human
being is generally considered a
mark of a mathematical mind,
and music and mathematics are
proverbially associated. The gait
of this pig, too, is undoubtedly
“ andante.”

In the “ pigs mechanical ” we
have been lucky, indeed, in secur¬
ing the work of two such mighty
masters of their art as Mr. Maxim and
Mr. Maskelyne. What two greater triumphs
of human ingenuity can we find than the
Maxim gun and the “ Box trick ” ? Both
are mechanical problems, for which either

mechanician may well envy the
other, while the ordinary intellect
stands amazed before such inventive
genius.

Referring to his pig, Mr. Maxim
writes : “ I have just a suspicion that
the pigs that are so well drawn in
your album are by people who had
their eyes partly open. The trouble
with my pig is that my eyes were too
tightly closed.” But nobody will find
fault with Mr. Maxim’s animal on
this score or on any other. It bears
the imprint of his matchless genius, and is
certainly suggestive of the action of his in¬
comparable gun.

MR. MASKELYNE S TIG.

vv c

MR. MAXIM S PIG.

That Mr. Maskelyne had the box trick in
his mind when he drew his shapely pig is
evident from the resemblance it bears to the
incomprehensible creature known generally as
the “ monkey,” but sometimes credited
with being something more, that
emerges from that unfathomed mystery.
The animal otherwise is eminently
characteristic of one of the most in¬
genious, genial, and generous of men.

We have also received a remarkably
good pig from Mr. Harry Furniss,
together with a most interesting letter
in which Mr. Furniss reveals a secret of
his own for drawing pigs blindfold almost
as well as when the eyes are open. As
we do not wish to give away tins secret
before our readers have had an
opportunity of trying what they
can do in the ordinary way, we re¬
serve Mr. Furniss’s letter and draw¬
ings for publication next month.

Vege table ISagarics.

By Thomas E. Curtis.

(Illustrations from Photographs.)

a penknife and pin, a to complete fruition the possibilities of these

FTH

few twigs and leaves, and
some acorns and mast, these
odd little men and women
have been made. Some of
them are full of grace and
action, as befits the characters they are sup¬
posed to represent. Others are warped and
ungainly, as if life to
them were a hard and
weary struggle; while
others bear in their
countenances an airy
dignity that betokens
a mind above the
wear-and - tear of
daily existence.

That much, at
least, any aestheti¬
cally-minded person
will be able to see in
our illustrations. The
great public, how¬
ever, will see only a
few curious inani¬
mate pigmies, and
will almost refuse to
believe that the mate¬
rials of which they

are made are as othello and iago.

simple as we have

said them to be. But there is no doubt upon
that point. The figures represent a few
characters well

known in fiction
and drama, and
it is to the facile
fancy of Mr. W.
Kershaw Davies, of
West Dome House,
Bognor, that their
creation is due.

In our magazine
some time back we
showed a few heads
made of antirrhi¬
num seed, and these
little snap-dragon
images were quaint
enough to delight
thousands of our
readers; but Mr.
Davies, in hisunique
gallery of vegetable
oddities, has brought

THE THREE WITCHES FROM “ MACBETH,

tiny garden favourites.

In the choice of subjects for his tableaux,
Mr. Davies is certainly ambitious. The first
photograph represents no other than the
scene from “ Othello,” when Iago convinces
the Moor of Desdemona’s faithlessness.
Othello is the figure on the left in a
picturesque robe
of antirrhinum
lichen, with his
twig arms uplifted
in an attitude of
despair. He is
racked with anguish,
having decided that
Desdemonashall die,
and is saying, “ O,
the pity of it, Iago.”
Judging from the
attitude of Iago’s
hair (made from
Spanish chestnut),
one might suppose
that he was rather
frightened at the
intensity of his
victim’s sufferings.

In dealing with
our second picture
we are strongly
tempted to ask again the question put by
Banquo to Macbeth :—

What are these,

So wither’d and so wild
in their attire,

That look not like th’ in¬
habitants of the earth,
And yet are on’t ?

For in this group
the artist in leaves
and twigs has
attempted to repre¬
sent the three weird
sisters. Their heads
are made of beech
mast, and their
garments of dried
leaves, the eyes
being represented
with beads of glass.
These, with the
addition of the hats
which figure in the
“ Temperance Lec¬
ture” soon to follow,

344

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

ROBINSON CRUSOE AND HIS MAN FRIDAY.

A TEMPERANCE LECTURE.

are the only artificial means which Mr. Davies
has adopted in his expression of personality.
Small wonder that if the noble Macbeth saw
such apparitions as these he was instantly
amazed, to say nothing of
his doubts regarding their
sex.

We now come to a
graphic representation
from the immortal history
of Robinson Crusoe.

It is needless to ask the
youth of the present day
what these things repre¬
sent, for the answer would
be forthcoming in a trice.

Better is it to describe
the personal apparel of
the doughty Crusoe and
his valiant Friday. The
snap-dragon, lichens, and
twigs are again used with
skill, and Friday’s hair,
which would arouse
jealousy in the breast of
any coiffeur , is expressed
with the seed of the corn¬
flower. Note the pro¬
gressive movement of
Robinson as he advances
with his huge umbrella.

Hunger, we may see, had already set in and
attenuated Friday’s manly frame.

In the “ Temperance Lecture ” the hats
are made of paper, the umbrella from winter
cherry, the clothing from
lichen, and the faces of
snap-dragon. As all tem¬
perance lectures are best
embodied in the persons
of those who take too
much, it is needless for
us to enforce the moral
of this group.

The pose shown in
“ The Last of the Mohi¬
cans ” is worthy of the
artist, and one instantly
calls to mind the lone
appearance of mummies
from Indian land, which
we may see in any
museum. The despair
centred in the last of a
great tribe is here only
equalled by the aptness
with which mere twigs
have been utilized for
the. bones of the abject
survivor.

Those who have had
the pleasure of seeing

THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS.

VE GE TABLE VA GABIES.

345

an Ojibbeway dance will find in the
next illustration a fairly faithful re¬
production of that curious Indian
ceremony, but will miss the cries
and howls which are a necessary
accompaniment. It does seem as
if a little fire-water had stirred
these figures up, for their move¬
ments are most fantastic and their
snap-dragon faces fearful to behold.
In the composition of this group
the same materials have been
used as in “ The Three Witches.”
Mark the energetic dance of the
right Ojibbeway, which is the right
way for an Ojibbeway to do it.

Our subject ends with a mis¬
cellaneous collection of humorous
and geographical objects. The
first of these, shown in the second

OJIBBEWAY DANCE.

“MY WIFE, SIR!” ESKIMO WOMAN. A GOOD THRASHING.

furry robe, and the man
who does the thrashing,
in the last sad group,
handles his rod like a
school-teacher. In the
illustration below we find
an Eskimo woman and
her daughters ; and
tjw o men, one of
whom, with a worldly
look upon his acorn face,
is supposed to be saying
to the other, “ I know a
trick worth two of that.”
The pose of the first
group is as clever as any
in the collection.

illustration on this page,
is composed of three
groups : (i) “ My Wife,
Sir!” (2) “An Eskimo
Woman ” ; and (3) “ A
Good Thrashing.” These
are made of acorns,
lichens, and twigs. In
the first the acorn hus¬
band, who might have
become a strong oak,
introduces his little
acorn wife with a cour¬
teous wave of the hand.
The Eskimo woman
stands alone in a fine,

AN ESKIMO WOMAN AND HER BABIES. “ I KNOW A TRICK WORTH TWO OF THAT.”

Vol. xvii.—44

By E. Nesbit.

I.—THE BOOK OF BEASTS.

E happened to be building a
Palace when the news came,
and he left all the bricks kick¬
ing about the floor for Nurse
to clear up—but then the news
was rather remarkable news.
You see, there was a knock at the front door
and voices talking downstairs, and Lionel
thought it was the man come to see about
the gas which had not been allowed to be
lighted since the day when Lionel made a
swing by tying his skipping-rope to the gas¬
bracket.

And then, quite suddenly, Nurse came in,
and said, “ Master Lionel, dear, they’ve come
to fetch you to go and be King.”

Then she made haste to change his smock
and to wash his face and hands and brush
his hair, and all the time she was doing it
Lionel kept wriggling and fidgeting and
saying, “Oh, don’t, Nurse,” and, “I’m sure

my ears are quite clean,” or, “Never mind
my hair, it’s all right,” and “That’ll do.”

“ You’re going on as if you was going to
be an eel instead of a King,” said Nurse.

The minute Nurse let go for a moment
Lionel bolted off without waiting for his
clean handkerchief, and in the drawing-room
there were two very grave-looking gentlemen
in red robes with fur, and gold coronets with
velvet sticking up out of the middle like the
cream in the very expensive tarts.

They bowed low to Lionel, and the gravest
one said:—

“Sire, your great-great-great-great-great¬
grandfather, the King of this country, is dead,
and now you have got to come and be King.”

“ Yes, please, sir,” said Lionel; “ when
does it begin ? ”

“ You will be crowned this afternoon,”
said the grave gentleman who was not quite
so grave-looking as the other.

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

347

“ Would you like me to bring Nurse, or
what time would you like me to be fetched,
and hadn’t I better put on my velvet suit
with the lace collar ? ” said Lionel, who had
often been out to tea.

“Your Nurse will be removed to the
Palace later. No, never mind about chang¬
ing your suit; the Royal robes will cover all
that up.”

The grave gentlemen led the way to a
coach with eight white horses, which was
drawn up in front of the house where Lionel
lived. It was No. 7, on the left-hand side of
the street as you go up.

Lionel ran upstairs at the last minute, and
he kissed Nurse and said :—

“ Thank you for washing me. I wish I’d
let you do the other ear. No—there’s no
time now. Give me the hanky. Good-bye,
Nurse.”

“ Good-bye, ducky,” said Nurse; “be a
good little King now, and say ‘ please ’ and
‘thank you,’ and remember to pass the cake
to the little girls, and don’t have more than
two helps of anything.”

So off went Lionel to be made a King.
He had never expected to be a King any
more than you have, so it was all quite new
to him—so new that he had never even
thought of it. And as the coach went
through the town he had to bite his tongue
to be quite sure it was real, because if
his tongue was real it showed he wasn’t
dreaming. Half an hour before he had been
building with bricks in the nursery; and
now—the streets were all fluttering with flags;
every window was crowded with people
waving handkerchiefs and scattering flowers ;
there were scarlet soldiers everywhere along
the pavements, and all the bells of all the
churches were ringing like mad, and like a
great song to the music of their ringing he
heard thousands of people shouting, “ Long
live Lionel! Long live our little King ! ”

He was a little sorry at first that he had
not put on his best clothes, but he soon
forgot to think about that. If he had been
a girl he would very likely have bothered
about it the whole time.

As they went along, the grave gentlemen,
who were the Chancellor and the Prime
Minister, explained the things which Lionel
did not understand.

“ I thought we were a Republic,” said
Lionel. “ I’m sure there hasn’t been a King
for some time.”

‘ ‘ Sire, your great - great - great - great - great -
grandfather’s death happened when my
grandfather was a little boy,” said the Prime

Minister, “ and since then your loyal people
have been saving up to buy you a crown—so
much a week, you know, according to people’s
means—sixpence a week from those who
have first-rate pocket-money, down to a half¬
penny a week from those who haven’t so
much. You know it’s the rule that the
crown must be paid for by the people.”

“ But hadn’t my great-great-however-much-
it-is-grandfather a crown ? ”

“ Yes, but he sent it to be tinned over, for
fear of vanity, and he had had all the jewels
taken out, and sold them to buy books.
He was a strange man—a very good King
he was, but he had his faults—he was fond
of books. Almost with his latest breath he
sent the crown to be tinned—and he never
lived to pay the tinsmith’s bill.”

Here the Prime Minister wiped away a
tear, and just then the carriage stopped and
Lionel was taken out of the carriage to be
crowned. Being crowned is much more
tiring work than you would suppose, and
by the time it was over, and Lionel had
worn the Royal robes for an hour or two
and had had his hand kissed by everybody
whose business it was to do it, he was quite
worn out, and was very glad to get into the
Palace nursery.

Nurse was there, and tea was ready : seedy
cake and plummy cake, and jam and hot
buttered toast, and the prettiest china with
red and gold and blue flowers on it, and real
tea, and as many cups of it as you liked.
After tea Lionel said

“ I think I should like a book. Will you
get me one, Nurse ? ”

“Bless the child,” said Nurse, “you don’t
suppose you’ve lost the use of your legs with
just being a King? Run along, do, and get
your books yourself.”

So Lionel went down into the library. The
Prime Minister and the Chancellor were there,
and when Lionel came in they bowed very
low, and were beginning to ask Lionel most
politely what on earth he was coming bother¬
ing for now—when Lionel cried out

“ Oh, what a worldful of books ! Are they
yours ? ”

“ They are yours, your Majesty,” answered
the Chancellor. “ They were the property
of the late King, your great-great——”

“ Yes, I know,” Lionel interrupted. “Well,
I shall read them all. I love to read. I am
so glad I learned to read.”

“ If I might venture to advise your
Majesty,” said the Prime Minister, “ I should

not read these books. “Your great-”

“Yes,” interrupted Lionel, quickly.

348

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ He was a very goad King—oh, yes, really
a very superior King in his way, but he was
a little—well, strange.”

“ Mad ? ” asked Lionel, cheerfully.

“ No, no ”—both the gentlemen were
sincerely shocked. “ Not mad; but if I may
express it so, he was—er—too clever by half.
And I should not like a little King of mine
to have anything to do with his books.”

Lionel looked puzzled.

“ The fact is,” the Chancellor went on,
twisting his red beard in an agitated way,
“ your great-”

“Go on,” said Lionel.

“ Was called a wizard.”

“ But he wasn’t ? ”

“Of course not a most worthy King was
your great

“ I see.”

“ But I wouldn’t touch his books.”

“Just this one,” cried Lionel, laying his
hands on the
cover of a great
brown book
that lay on the
study table. It
had gold pat¬
terns on the
brown leather,
and gold clasps
with turquoises
and rubies in
the twists of
them, and gold
corners, so that
the leather
should not wear
out too quickly.

“ I must look
at this one,”

Lionel said, for
on the back in
big letters he
read: “The
Bookof Beasts.”

The Chan¬
cellor said,

“Don’t be a
silly little King.”

But Lionel
had got the gold
clasps undone,
and he opened
the first page,
and there *was a beautiful Butterfly all red,
and brown, and yellow, and blue, so beauti¬
fully painted that it looked as if it were alive.

“There,” said Lionel, “isn’t that lovely?
Why-”

But as he spoke the beautiful Butterfly
fluttered its many-coloured wings on the
yellow old page of the book, and flew up
and out of the window.

“Well! ” said the Prime Minister, as soon
as he could speak for the lump of wonder
that had got into his throat and tried to
choke him, “ that’s magic, that is.”

But before he had spoken the King had
turned the next page, and there was a
shining bird complete and beautiful in every
blue feather of him. Under him was
written, “ Blue Bird of Paradise,” and while
the King gazed enchanted at the charming
picture the Blue Bird fluttered his wings on
the yellow page and spread them and flew
out of the book.

Then the Prime Minister snatched the
book away from the King and shut it up on
the blank page where the bird had been, and
put it on a very high shelf. And the

Chancellor gave
the King a good
shaking, and
said :—

“You’re a
naughty, dis¬
obedient little
King,” and was
very angry
indeed.

“ I don’t see
that I’ve done
any harm,” said
Lionel. He
hated being
shaken, as all
boys do; he
would much
rather have
been slapped.

“No harm?”
said the Chan¬
cellor. “ Ah—
but what do
you know about
it ? That’s the
question. How
do you know
what might
have been on
the next page
— a snake or
a worm, or a
centipede or a revolutionist, or something
like that.”

“ Well, I’m sorry if I’ve vexed you,” said
Lionel. “Come, let’s kiss and be friends.”
So he kissed the Prime Minister, and they

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

349

settled down for a nice quiet game of noughts
and crosses, while the Chancellor went to
add up his accounts.

But when Lionel was in bed he could not
sleep for thinking of the book, and when the
full moon was shining with all her might
and light he got up and crept down to the
library and climbed up and got the “ Book
of Beasts.”

He took it outside on to the terrace, where
the moonlight was as bright as day, and he
opened the book, and saw the empty pages
with “ Butterfly ” and “ Blue Bird of Para¬
dise” underneath, and then he turned the
next page. There was some sort of red
thing sitting under a palm tree, and under
it was written
“Dragon.” The
Dragon did not
move, and the King-
shut up the book
rather quickly and
went back to
bed.

But the next day
he wanted another
look, so he got the
book out into the
garden, and when he
undid the clasps
with the rubies and
turquoises, the book
opened all by itself
at the picture with
“Dragon” under¬
neath, and the sun
full on the
And then,
suddenly, a
Red Dragon
out of the
and spread
scarlet wings

felt that he had indeed done it. He had
not been King twenty-four hours, and
already he had let loose a Red Dragon to
worry his faithful subjects’ lives out. And
they had been saving up so long to buy him
a crown, and everything !

Lionel began to cry.

Then the Chancellor and the Prime
Minister and the Nurse all came running to
see what was the matter. And when they saw
the book they understood, and the Chancellor
said : -

“You naughty little King! Put him to
bed, Nurse, and let him think over what he’s
done.”

“ Perhaps, my Lord,

said the Prime

shone
page,
quite
great
came
book,
vast

,and flew away
across the garden to
the far hills, and
Lionel was left with
the empty page
before him, for the
page was quite empty
except for the green
palm tree and the
yellow desert, and
the little streaks of
red where the paint
brush had gone out¬
side the outline of
the Red Dragon.

And then Lionel

THE DRAGON FLEW AWAY ACROSS THE GARDEN.

35°

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Minister, “ we’d better first find out just what
he has done.”

Then Lionel, in floods of tears, said :

“ It’s a Red Dragon, and it’s gone flying
away to the hills, and I am so sorry, and, oh,
do forgive me ! ”

But the Prime Minister and the Chancellor
had other things to think of than forgiving
Lionel. They hurried off to consult the
police and see what could be done. Every¬
one did what they could. They sat on com¬
mittees and stood on guard, and lay in wait
for the Dragon, but he stayed up in the hills,
and there was nothing more to be done.
The faithful Nurse, meanwhile, did not
neglect her duty. Perhaps she did more
than anyone else, for she slapped the King
and put him to bed without his tea, and
when it got dark she would not give him a
candle to read by.

“You are a naughty little King,” she said,
“and nobody will love you.”

Next day the Dragon was still quiet, though
the more poetic of Lionel’s subjects could
see the redness of the Dragon shining through
the green trees quite plainly. So Lionel put
on his crown and sat on his throne and said
he wanted to make some laws.

And I need hardly say that though the
Prime Minister and the Chancellor and the
Nurse might have the very poorest opinion
of Lionel’s private judgment, and might even
slap him and send him to bed, the minute he
got on his throne and set his crown on his
head, he became infallible—which means
that everything he said was right, and that he
couldn’t possibly make a mistake. So when
he said: —

“ There is to be a law forbidding people
to open books in school or elsewhere ”
—he had the support of at least half of
his subjects, and the other half — the
grown-up half—pretended to think he was
quite right.

Then he made a law that everyone should
always have enough to eat. And this pleased
everyone except the ones who had always
had too much.

And when several other nice new laws
were written down he went home and made
mud-houses and was very happy. And he
said to his Nurse :—

“ People will love me now I’ve made such
a lot of pretty new laws for them.”

But Nurse said : “ Don’t count your

chickens, my dear. You haven’t seen the
last of that Dragon yet.”

Now the next day was Saturday. And
in the afternoon the Dragon suddenly

swooped down upon the common in all
his hideous redness, and carried off the
football players, umpires, goal-posts, football,
and all.

Then the people were very angry indeed,
and they said : —

“ We might as well be a Republic. After
saving up all these years to get his crown,
and everything! ”

And wise people shook their heads and
foretold a decline in the National Love of
Sport. And, indeed, football was not at all
popular for some time afterwards.

Lionel did his best to be a good King
during the week, and the people were begin¬
ning to forgive him for letting the Dragon
out" of the book. “After all,” they said,

“ football is a dangerous game, and perhaps
it is wise to discourage it.”

Popular opinion held that the football
players, being tough and hard, had disagreed
with the Dragon so much that he had gone
away to some place where they only play
cats’ cradle and games that do not make you
hard and tough.

All the same, Parliament met on the
Saturday afternoon, a convenient time, when
most of the members would be free to
attend, to consider the Dragon. But unfor¬
tunately the Dragon, who had only been
asleep, woke up because it was Saturday,
and he considered the Parliament, and after¬
wards there were not any members left, so
they tried to make a new Parliament, but
being a member had somehow grown as
unpopular as football playing, and no one
would consent to be elected, so they had to
do without a Parliament. When the next
Saturday came round everyone was a little
nervous, but the Red Dragon was pretty quiet
that day and only ate an Orphanage.

Lionel was very, very unhappy. He felt
that it was his disobedience that had brought
this trouble on the Parliament and the.
Orphanage and the football players, and he
felt that it was his duty to try and do some¬
thing. The question was, what ?

The Blue Bird that had come out of the
book used to sing very nicely in the Palace
rose-garden, and the Butterfly was very tame,
and would perch on his shoulder when he
walked among the tall lilies: so Lionel saw
that all the creatures in the Book of Beasts
could not be wicked, like the Dragon, and he
thought:—

“ Suppose I could get another beast out
who would fight the Dragon ? ”

So he took the Book of Beasts out into
the rose-garden and opened the page next

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

35 1

‘the dragon only ate an orphanage.

to the one where the Dragon had been, just a
tiny bit to see what the name was. He
could only see “cora,” but he felt the
middle of the page swelling up thick with the
creature that was trying to come out, and it
was only by putting the book down and
sitting on it suddenly, very hard, that he
managed to get it shut. Then he fastened
the clasps with the rubies and turquoises in
them and sent for the Chancellor, who had
been ill on Saturday week, and so not been
eaten with the rest of the Parliament, and
he said :—

“ What animal ends in 4 cora ’ ? ”

The Chancellor answered
44 The Manticora, of course.”

44 What is he like ? ” asked the King.

44 He is the sworn foe of Dragons,” said the
Chancellor. 44 He drinks their blood. He
is yellow, with the body of a lion and the face
of a man. I wish we had a few Manticoras

here now. But the last died
hundreds of years ago—worse
luck ! ”

Then the King ran and
opened the book at the
page that had 44 cora ” on
it, and there was the
picture — Manticora, all
yellow, with a lion’s body
and a man’s face, just as
the Chancellor had said.
And under the picture was written, 44 The
Manticora.”

And in a few minutes the Manticora came
sleepily out of the book, rubbing its eyes with
its hands and mewing piteously. It seemed
very stupid, and when Lionel gave it a push
and said, 44 Go along and fight the Dragon,
do,” it put its tail between its legs and fairly
ran away. It went and hid behind the Town
Hall,- and at night when the people were asleep
it went round and ate all the pussy-cats in the
town. And then it mewed more than ever.
And on the Saturday morning, when people
were a little timid about going out, because
the Dragon had no regular hour for calling, the
Manticora went up and down the streets and
drank all the milk that was left in the cans at
the doors for people’s teas, and it ate the cans
as well.

And just when it had finished the very last
little ha’porth, which was short measure,

352

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

because the milk¬
man’s nerves were
quite upset, the Red
Dragon came down
the street looking for
the Manticora. It
edged off when it
saw him coming, for
it was not at all the
Dragon-fighting kind;
and, seeing no other
door open, the poor,
hunted creature took
refuge in the General
Post Office, and
there the Dragon
found it, trying to
conceal itself among
the ten o’clock mail.

The Dragon fell on
the Manticora at
once, and the mail
was no defence.

The mewings were
heard all over the
town. All the
pussies and the milk
the Manticora had
had seemed to have
strengthened its mew
wonderfully. Then
there was a sad
silence, and presently
the people whose
windows looked that

way saw the Dragon come walking down the
steps of the General Post Office spitting fire
and smoke, together with tufts of Manticora
fur, and the fragments of the registered
letters. Things were growing very serious.
However popular the King might become
during the week, the Dragon was sure to do
something on Saturday to upset the people’s
loyalty.

The Dragon was a perfect nuisance for the
whole of Saturday, except during the hour of
noon, and then he had to rest under a tree
or he would have caught fire from the heat
of the sun. You see, he was very hot to
begin with.

At last came a Saturday when the Dragon
actually walked into the Royal nursery
and carried off the King’s own pet Rocking-
Horse. Then the King cried for six days,
and on the seventh he was so tired that
he had to stop. Then he heard the Blue
Bird singing among the roses and saw
the Butterfly fluttering among the lilies, and
he said : —

1 THE MANTICORA TOOK REFUGE IN THE GENERAL
I’OST OFFICE.”

“ Nurse, wipe my face, please. I am not
going to cry any more.”

Nurse washed his face, and told him not
to be a silly little King. “ Crying,” said she,
“ never did anyone any good yet.”

“ I don’t know,” said the little King, “ I
seem to see better, and to hear better now
that I’ve cried for a week. Now, Nurse,
dear, I know I’m right, so kiss me in case I
never come back. I must try if I can’t save
the people.”

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

353

“Well, if you must, you must,” said Nurse;
“ but don’t tear your clothes or get your
feet wet.”

So off he went.

The Blue Bird sang more sweetly than
ever, and the Butterfly shone more brightly
as Lionel once more carried the Book of
Beasts out into the rose-garden, and opened
it—very quickly—so that he might not be
afraid and change his mind. The book fell
open wide, almost in the middle, and there
was written at the bottom of the page, “ The
Hippogriff,” and before Lionel had time to
see what the picture was, there was a flutter¬
ing of great wings and a stamping of hoofs,
and a sweet, soft, friendly neighing; and
there came out of the book a beautiful white
horse with a long, long, long mane and a
long, long white tail, and he had great wings
like swan’s wings, and the softest, kindest
eyes in the world, and he stood there among
the roses.

The Hippogriff rubbed its silky-soft, milky-
white nose against the little King’s shoulder,
and the little King thought: “ But for the
wings you are very like my poor, dear, lost
Rocking-Horse.” And the Blue Bird sang
very loud and sweet.

Then suddenly the King saw coming
through the sky the great straggling, sprawl¬
ing, wicked shape of the Red Dragon. And he
knew at once what he must do. He caught
up the Book of Beasts and jumped on the
back of the gentle, beautiful Hippogriff, and
leaning down he whispered in the sharp
white ear:—

“ Fly, dear Hippogriff, fly your very fastest
to the Pebbly Waste.”

And when the Dragon saw them start, he
turned and flew after them, with his great
wings flaming like clouds at sunset, and the
Hippogriff spread his wide wings, and they
were snowy as clouds at the moon rising.

When the people in the town saw the
Dragon fly off after the Hippogriff and the
King they all came out of their houses to
look, and when they saw the two disappear
they made up their minds to the worst, and
began to think what would be worn for
Court mourning.

But the Dragon could not catch the Hippo¬
griff. The red wings were bigger than the
white ones, but they were not so strong, and
so the white-winged horse flew away and
away and away, with the Dragon pursuing,
till he reached the very middle of the Pebbly
Waste.

Now, the Pebbly Waste is just like the
parts of the seaside where there is no sand—

v oii xvii.--45

all round, loose, shifting stones, and there is
no grass there and no tree within a hundred
miles of it.

Lionel jumped off the white horse’s back
in the very middle of the Pebbly Waste, and
he hurriedly unclasped the Book of Beasts
and laid it open on the pebbles. Then he
clattered among the pebbles in his haste to
get back on to his white horse, and had just
jumped on when up came the Dragon. He
was flying very feebly, and looking round
everywhere for a tree, for it was just on the
stroke of twelve, the sun was shining like a
gold guinea in the blue sky, and there was
not a tree for a hundred miles.

The white-winged horse flew round and
round the Dragon as he writhed on the dry
pebbles. He was getting very hot: indeed,
parts of him even had begun to smoke. He
knew that he must certainly catch lire in
another minute unless he could get under
a tree. He made a snatch with his red claws
at the King and Hippogriff, but he was too
feeble to reach them, and besides, he did
not dare to over-exert himself for fear he
should get any hotter.

It was then that he saw the Book of
Beasts lying on the pebbles, open at the
page with “ The Dragon ” written at the
bottom. He looked and he hesitated, and
he looked again, and then, with one last
squirm of rage, the Dragon wrigged him¬
self back into the picture, and sat down
under the palm tree, and the page was a
little singed as he went in.

As soon as Lionel saw that the Dragon
had really been obliged to go and sit under
his own palm tree because it was the only
tree there, he jumped off his horse and shut
the book with a bang.

“ Oh, hurrah ! ” he cried. “ Now we really
have done it.”

And he clasped the book very tight with
the turquoise and ruby clasps.

“Oh, my precious Hippogriff,” he cried,
“you are the bravest, dearest, most beauti¬
ful-”

“ Hush,” whispered the Hippogriff, mo¬
destly. “ Don’t you see that we are not
alone ? ”

And indeed there was quite a crowd
round them on the Pebbly Waste : the
Prime Minister and the Parliament and the
Football Players and the Orphanage and the
Manticora and the Rocking-Horse, and
indeed everyone who had been eaten by
the Dragon. You see, it was impossible
for the Dragon to take them into the
book with him—it was a tight fit even for

354

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

one Dragon—so, of course, he had to leave
them outside !

They all got home somehow, and all lived
happy ever after.

When the King asked the Manticora
where he would like to live he begged to be
allowed to go back into the book. “ I do
not care for public life,” he said.

Of course he knew his way on to his own
page, so there was no danger of his opening
the book at the wrong page and letting out a
Dragon or anything. So he got back into
his picture, and has never come out since:
that is why you will never see a Manticora
as long as you live, except in a picture-book.
And of course he left the pussies outside,

because there was no room for them in the
book - and the milk-cans too.

Then the Rocking-Horse begged to be
allowed to go and live on the HippogrifPs
page of the book. “ I should like,” he said,
“ to live somewhere where Dragons can’t get
at me.”

So the beautiful, white-winged Hippogriff
showed him the way in, and there he stayed
till the King had him taken out for his great-
great-great-great-grandchildren to play with.

As for the Hippogriff, he accepted the
position of the King’s Own Rocking-Horse
—a situation left vacant by the retirement of
the wooden one. And the Blue Bird and the
Butterfly sing and flutter among the lilies and
roses of the Palace garden to this very day.

Curiosities .*

[I'Ve shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section , and to pay for such as are accepted. ]

A DUCK WITH A SEA-WEED TAIL.

The photo, we here reproduce shows a very curious
freak of Nature, found July 31st, 1898, on the beach
near the Cliff House, San Francisco. It is a young
bird known as a “ ruddy ” duck—a sea-fowl which is
very common along the North Pacific coast. Instead
of feathers, the duck wears a tail of sea-weed—grow¬
ing sea-weed—fine and soft, and dark green in colour.

HOW TO CROW CARROT-
FERNS.

The beautiful fern - embosomed
basket seen in the accompanying
illustration is good enough to orna¬
ment any greenhouse or drawing¬
room. Nothing more is required
to produce it than an ordinary
large - sized carrot, the modus
operandi being as follows : Cut
off the end of the carrot and

The bird was caught on the beach by Mr. Henry
Schmidt, proprietor of a resort near the Cliff House,
and was taken by him to the office of the San
Francisco Chronicle , where it was examined and
photographed. The theory is that when the duck
was quite young, seeds or spores of the weed found
lodgment in the fissures of the tail-feather stems
(which are exceedingly tender in the young of these
birds), and that the marine growth has supplanted the
natural feathery covering of the stems.

A TICKLISH MOMENT.

The uses of snap-shot photography are many and
various. Without its beneficent aid it would be
impossible to obtain impressions
of such scenes as that depicted
in the photo, here reproduced.

The boy in the air has just
reached the extreme limit of his
upward flight, and is about to
descend. Notice the uneasy look
on his face, and the convul¬
sive clutching of his outstretched
hand. The group below are wait¬
ing to catch him as he falls, every
muscle tense and rigid. If anyone
had sneezed, or if one of them had
caught sight of the photographer,
the result might have been disaster
for the lad in the air. Our photo,
was sent in by Mr. Edmond
Garneau, 113, Stewart Street,

Ottawa, Canada.

scoop out the inside. Attach wires to this and
hang it up, filling the hollow part with fresh
water daily. Shoots will very soon appear, covering
the carrot almost completely, and resembling a pretty
fern. A few flowers judiciously placed in the water
will convert the whole into a perfect dream of
beauty. We are indebted to Mr. A. H. Bridge,
of Sussex Lodge, Sussex Road, Southsea, for the
photo, and “ notion.”

* Copyright, t 899 , by George Newnes, Limited,

35^

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

SAVED BY A BOOT.

of its solid appearance, it is fashioned in no more
permanent material than sand. The sculptor made
a heap of damp sand, and then, with a piece of wood,
turned out the figure in relief shown in our photo,
in a very few minutes. The photo, was sent us by
Mr. R. Percival Campbell, of “The Sherbrooke, 55
Montreal, Canada. We shall be glad to receive other
photographs of sand art

A LONG-ARMED BOY.

The boy seen in this reproduction lives in Cranford,
New Jersey, and while he is broad-shouldered and
high-chested, he is yet able to throw his arms right
round his back and make his fingers overlap, as you
see here. His arms, although long, do not attract
attention ; the great size of the hands seen in our
photo, being due to their proximity to the camera.
The photo, was sent in by Mr. A. L. Brown, 117,
Wall Street, New York.

THE HAND OF DESTINY.

This photo, does not show a curious cloud, such as
you might suppose, but is the result of an amusing
accident, which must at some time or other
have happened to most photographic ama¬
teurs. While Cadet M. C. Bomford, of
H.M.S. Britannia , was being ferried in a
boat from the shore to his ship, he suddenly
took it into his head to secure a snap-shot of
the shore. Just as he made the exposure,
however, the boatman held out his hand for
the fare, and the nebulous shadow seen in the
sky of our photo, was the result. The shape
of the open hand and arm can be easily
traced when you know what it is.

SCULPTURE IN SAND.

The accompanying photo, was taken on
the beach at Atlantic City, New Jersey, in
the spring of last year. It represents
“Sorrow, mourning over the brave hearts
lost in the battleship Maine A In spite

This boot is made on what is known as
the “Standard Screw 55 principle ; the sole
and the upper being fastened together by
means of brass screw-wire in precisely the
same manner as ordinary screws are turned
into wood. While wearing this boot one
day, a porter in the service of the Great
Eastern Railway was knocked down by a
goods train, his foot getting caught in the
points. Fortunately for him, however, so
strongly was the boot made that although
several heavily-laden waggons passed over
it, not a screw moved, the boot remaining
solid and so saving the man from an acci¬
dent which might otherwise have rendered
him a cripple for life. Photo, sent in by
Mr.J. Pryke, 12, Portland Road, Colchester.

CURIOSITIES.

357

THE MYSTERIOUS

horse took his leap to the spot he arrived on below
was 36ft. Singularly enough, neither horse nor rider
was seriously hurt. Mr. Spong, who stuck to his
saddle all the lime, afterwards rode the animal home.

POSTER.

This stri king
advertisement was
exhibited at Black¬
pool in 1897. It
was about 27ft. long
and 9ft. high. In
case any of our
readers should ex¬
perience difficulty
in solving the pro¬
blem, we append
a translation:

“ Before you are
too late, secure a
front seat to see the
Flying Lady. I f
you are wise you
will not miss it
(hit).” This photo, of the poster was sent in by
Mr. H. Bowker, Pacific Place, Radcliffe, Lancs.

“ SPONG’S LEAP. ”

Mr. Spong, of Rochester, was one dny riding down
the High Street at Brompton, when his horse took
fright and dashed away at a frightful pace. Tearing
through the arch at Brompton Barracks, it continued
on its mad career in the direction of the iron fence
at the other side of the barrack yard, beyond which
was a fall of 42ft. It was while crossing the
yard that Mr. Spong arrived at a full sense of
his fearful position ; the dwarf-like appearance
of a large tree beyond the iron rails indicated
the great depth. The animal presently arrived
at the 5ft. fence, which it at once took, and
horse and rider disappeared, the animal carry¬
ing away some seventeen or eighteen of the
iron bars into the chasm below. Fortunately
a flight of steps intercepted the fall, and on
these the horse alighted after falling a distance
of 17ft. The distance from the spot where the

.4. Cooper ,
Inverness.

VENERABLE TWINS.

These two old gentlemen were weavers, and so alike that
it was impossible to tell them apart. Indeed, when they
were young their own mother found the task so difficult that
she made one of them grow a tuft of hair as a distinguishing
mark. In their old age the two made their way north,
dying at the Inverness Workhouse within a very short time
of one another. During the whole of their long lives these
twins had never been separated, and they always slept under
the same roof. Photo, sent in by Mr. W. M. Snowie, Jun.,
36, Church Street, Inverness.

358

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

NOVEL USE FOR CANDLE-ENDS.

The figures in this photo, are interesting as being meddled
out of ordinary candle-grease. The draught-horse seen in our
illustration weighs about iKlb., and stands loin. high. The
figures were not cast in a mould, but worked entirely by hand,
the harness being ingeniously made of American cloth, with
silver paper to imitate the mounting. We are indebted
for our photo, to the maker of the figures, Miss W. A.
Ogilvie, Holefield, Kelso, N.B.

A HEN WITH ORIGINAL IDEAS.

There is a hen at Antingham, Norfolk,
with original ideas about eggs. She thinks,
apparently, that the world is tired of the
ordinary type of egg, and by way of a
much - needed change she has taken to
laying eggs surrounded by a large-sized
protective shell, such as the one seen in
the accompanying photo. This weighs
over 7oz., and, as will be seen, there is a
perfectly-formed egg of normal size within
the outer covering. Two of these “pro¬

tected” eggs were laid within a month.
Photo, sent in by the Rev. F. G. Davies,
of Antingham Rectory, North Walsham,
Norfolk.

A MONSTER MOUSE-TRAP.

The weird - looking structure
here shown is nothing more or
less than the biggest, most com¬
plicated, and most ingenious
mouse - trap in the world. The
poor little mousey enters it
by way of an ordinary penny
mouse - trap. Once inside, a
veritable inferno of baffling in¬
tricacies awaits him. Pie sees
a long gallery ahead, and,
scenting freedom, bolts down it,
setting all the hidden machinery
of the awful place to work. He
is taken up towers by automatic
lifts ; he loses himself in a cun¬
ning maze ; he climbs up inter¬
minable ladders only to find
himself brought down once more
by a descending lift. Then he
starts on his weary journey over
again, only to find himself pre¬
sently a prisoner inside a gigantic
wheel, which his own weight
causes to revolve. He is hurried
from chamber to chamber by the
various mechanical contrivances,
which keep him always on the
move in his vain search for an
exit. There are over a hundred
separate traps in this terrifying
creation, which occupied a man
during his spare time for thirty
years. The trap stands 5ft. 6in.
high, by -4ft. 6in. long, and 3ft.
wide. Its estimated value is
£7 5. Photo, sent in by Mr. F.
Rogers, Beulah House, Hartley
Road, Nottingham.

CURIOSITIES.

359

A KEYHOLE PHOTOGRAPH.

The Rev. Geo. Eyre Evans, of Ochr - y - Bryn,
Aberystwith, in sending us this unique photo.,
writes : “ This is the interior of the famous Norman
Chapel at Kirljfetead, Lines, where preached the Rev.
John Taylor, D.D., the great Hebraist. Service has
long since ceased in the building, the massive door
being screwed up by order of the owner. Being very
desirous of having a photo, of the pulpit, I had no

CUTTING UP A SHARK.

This photo, shows Captain Rivers, of the American
ship A . G. Ropes , in the act of cutting up a shark 9ft.
in length, which is lashed on the port-quarter of the
vessel. The dissecting instrument is a keen Japanese
sword. Seventy-three sharks were caught by Captain
Rivers on one voyage in 1897. To be seen properly
the illustration should be held cornerwise, the faint
line above the captain’s head being the horizon. We
are indebted for the photo, to Mr. W. IT. Yorke, of
93, Belgrave Road, St. Michael’s, Liverpool.

A THRUSH’S LARDER.

The dry summer of 1898 caused the thrushes to
search diligently for their favourite summer food—
snails. In a garden at Hayward’s Heath, Sussex,
close to a potato-bed and
only two yards from the
road, there were stacked
some fagots. These fagots
gave shelter to any amount
of snails, until the birds
found them out and pro¬
ceeded to hammer them
upon a large stone to
break their shells. This
done, Mr. Snail promptly
disappeared, and the
thrushes felt pretty full.

After our photo, was taken
(Aug. 31st), the shells
were counted and weighed.

There were upwards of
180, the weight being
170 Z. Mr. W. Herrington,
of Church House, Cuck-
field, Hayward’s Heath,

Sussex, who sent us the
photo., says that he often
saw and heard the birds
at work breaking up the
shells, but was never
successful in obtaining a
snap-shot of them.

other alternative but to apply the 4 nose ’ of my
camera to the keyhole, with this result. The pulpit,
sounding-board, reading-desk, and font have all
come out splendidly.” Which shows conclusively
that photography, like love, laughs at locksmiths.
But does not this open up grave potentialities ?

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

360

A FALLING STEEPLE.

Some time ago it was decided to pull down the old
First Presbyterian Church at Chillicothe, Ohio, and
it became quite a problem as to how the steeple was to
be taken down without danger to life and lim^. It was
the tallest in the city, and being roofed with slate,
was very heavy. Finally, it was decided to attach
steel cables to it and pull it over bodily. This
operation was successfully performed, and Mr. Charles
H. Doty, an enthusiastic amateur, secured the
splendid snap-shot here reproduced. “ For three
days,” he says, in describing the feat, “ I sat on a
roof at the back of the chapel, waiting for the work¬
men to pull the steeple over. As it was in August,
you can be sure I had a broiling time of it.” We are
indebted for this unique snap-shot to Mr. B. K.
Stevenson, of the Advertiser, Chillicothe, Ohio.

Mount Vernon, New York, from the roof of his
studio. The daring young traveller had never before
been photographed at work, and was quite delighted
with the picture. Photo, sent in by Mr. W. R.
Yard, 156, Fifth Avenue, New York City.

A TOP-HEAVY YOUTH.

Here we have a curious snap-shot taken “ from
above.” Mr. F. G. Taylor, of 11, College Street,
Halifax, Nova Scotia, who sent us the photo., writes
as follows : “On developing the print I was surprised
to behold the proportions of the head, which appears
to be about as large as the rest of the body put
together. Looked at fiom above, the feet and hands
seem to be an enormous distance off, and the expres¬
sion on the face is also worth noticing. It might
represent anything, from concentrated thought to
acute indigestion.”

AN AERIAL
TRAVELLER.

The young man seen
in this photo, is twenty-
two years of age, and
he is engaged in bind¬
ing the heavy trunk
line cable to a strong
supporting wire.
Seated on a travelling
cross-seat suspended
from a wheel, he travels
from pole to pole,
carrying with him the
implements of his
work. He has jour¬
neyed thousands of
miles in this way—
so far without a mis¬
hap. In the picture
he is seen suspended
some 60ft. above the
railway, which runs
below in a deep, rocky
cutting. Our photo,
was taken by Mr.
W. H. Ilowson, of

‘“YOU VILLAIN!’ I CRIED, ‘LET HIM GO!’”
(See page 372.)

The Strand Magazine.

Vol. xvii. APRIL, 1899. No. 100.

The One Hundredth Number of “ The Strand

Magazine

A Chat about its History by Sir George Newnes, Bart.

When I was told that the Hundredth Number of The Strand
Magazine was due in April this year, I could hardly realize its truth.
How time flies ! It seems only the other day that the first number of a
Magazine on the lines that I had always wanted, with an illustration on
every page, was published, and with such far-reaching results.

The Strand to some extent revolutionized Magazines in this country,
and it is a fitting thing that on this Birthday something should be written
as to its history.

This will not be done in any boastful spirit, but with a feeling
of friendship, loyalty, and affection towards the “good old Strand” which
I am sure is shared by many thousands of people.

First of all let me talk about the name. At one time we thought of
calling it “ The Burleigh Street Magazine,” because our offices were then
situated in that thoroughfare. But that was rather long, and as we were
so very near the Strand we thought that to call it after the historic
thoroughfare would be justifiable. But the name of a periodical does' not
really matter so much as people imagine. If you can put such material
into the pages as will attract the public, they become so accustomed to the
name, that after a while it really signifies very little whether the title be a
good or a bad one. But still I am very glad the Magazine was christened
The Strand; and now this celebrated street—perhaps the most widely
known of any in the world—is permanently associated with this pioneer
Magazine.

What has happened since everybody knows. Most Magazines are now
modelled upon the plan of The Strand. By the way, I commenced by
saying I would not be boastful, but this sounds rather like it. Is it not,
however, a fact? It is not a source of annoyance, but of gratification to

364

me, and those associated with me, that our model should have been made
the type of others.

At the time when The Strand Magazine first appeared, I have no
hesitation in saying that British Magazines were at a low ebb. American
Magazines were coming here, and, because they were smarter and livelier,
more interesting, bright and cheerful, they were supplanting those of native
birth. The Strand Magazine checked that, and established a new record
of sales in this country.

It is easy to get a good idea in journalism, but the carrying out of it is
most important. I have been very fortunate in having as the Literary Editor
Mr. Greenhough Smith* and as the Art Editor Mr. W. H. J. Boot, and I do
not want to allow this hundredth monthly birthday to go past without
acknowledging the ability, the faithfulness, and the loyalty that they have
displayed towards the Magazine. I have had in a busy experience to deal
with a great many people, and to ask a great many for co-operation, and I
have never been associated with any who gave me less trouble and more
assistance than Mr. Greenhough Smith and Mr. Boot. In any gossip or chat
about The Strand I could not omit that reference.

I also wish to say how much we have appreciated the work done by
authors and artists, of whom we have a large circle of valued friends.

The providing of the world's thought and reading, whether it is of a
light or serious type, is one of the most important professions ; and it is a
source of satisfaction with regard to The Strand that, whilst the tone
has always been high, the interest has been continually retained. Its sale in
America has also become very large. The American Edition is specially
edited for that market by Mr. James Walter Smith. The International
News Co., who are the W. H. Smith and Sons of America, always liked
The Strand, and have taken much interest in its welfare, and to this fact
it is doubtless largely due that the American success has been achieved.

The vStrand during all These years has maintained and continues to
maintain its position.

It even did so whilst I was myself writing some articles for it, and if a
Magazine can stand a test like that it can stand anything; and to show’ my
confidence in its hold upon the public, I am going to put it to the further
test of writing some fiction for it, but out of kindness to the staff and mercy
for the subscribers I am putting off the evil day as long as possible.

And now, gentle reader, forgive the egotism of these lines. I have been
asked by the staff to write something on the Hundredth Monthly Birthday,
and here is this little bit of gossip, which will conclude with a wish, that
will probably be responded to by all its subscribers, that The Strand will be
at its Thousandth Monthly Birthday as vigorous and flourishing as it is at
its Hundredth.

Round the Fire.

XI.—THE STORY OF THE LATIN TUTOR.
By A. Conan Doyle.

R. LUMSDEN, the senior
partner of Lumsden and
Westmacott, the well-known
scholastic and clerical agents,
was a small, dapper man, with
a sharp, abrupt manner, a
critical eye, and an incisive way of speaking.

“ Your name, sir ? ” said
he, sitting pen in hand
with his long, red-lined
folio in front of him.

“ Harold Weld.”

‘‘Oxford or Cam¬
bridge ? ”

“ Cambridge.”

“ Honours ? ”

“ No, sir.”

“Athlete?”

“ Nothing remarkable,

I am afraid.”

“ Not a Blue ? ”

“ Oh, no.”

Mr. Lumsden shook his
head despondently and
shrugged his shoulders in
a way which sent my
hopes down to zero.

“ There is a very keen
competition for master¬
ships, Mr. Weld,” said he.

“The vacancies are few
and the applicants in¬
numerable. A first-class
athlete, oar, or cricketer,
or a man who has passed
very high in his examina¬
tions, can usually find a
vacancy - - I might say
always in the case of
the cricketer. But the
average man—if you will excuse the descrip¬
tion, Mr. Weld—has a very great difficulty,
almost an insurmountable difficulty. We
have already more than a hundred such
names upon our lists, and if you think it
worth while our adding yours, I daresay that
in the course of some years we may pos¬
sibly be able to find you some opening
which-”

He paused on account of a knock at the
door. It was a clerk with a note. Mr.
Lumsden broke the seal and read it.

“ Why, Mr. Weld,” said he, “ this is really
rather an interesting coincidence. I under¬
stand you to say that Latin and English are

your subjects, and that you would prefer
for a time to accept a place in an elemen¬
tary establishment, where you would have
time for private study ? ”

“ Quite so.”

“ This note contains a request from an
old client of ours, Dr. Phelps McCarthy, of
Willow Lea House Academy,
West Hampstead, that I should
at once send him a young

“‘your name, sir?’ said he.”

man who should be qualified to teach
Latin and English to a small class of boys
under fourteen years of age. His vacancy
appears to be the very one which you are
looking for. The terms are not munificent
—sixty pounds, board, lodging, and washing
but the work is not onerous, and you
would have the evenings to yourself.”

“That would do,” I cried, with all the
eagerness of the man who sees work at last
after weary months of seeking.

“ I don’t know that it is quite fair to these
gentlemen whose names have been so long
upon our list,” said Mr. Lumsden, glancing
down at his open ledger. “ But the coinci-

3 66

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

dence is so striking that 1 feel we must
really give you the refusal of it.”

“Then I accept it, sir, and I am much
obliged to you.”

“There is one small provision in Dr.
McCarthy’s letter. He stipulates that the
applicant must be a man with an imperturb¬
ably good temper.”

“ I am the very man,” said I, with convic¬
tion.

“ Well,” said Mr. Lumsden, with some
hesitation, “ I hope that your temper is really
as good as you say, for I rather fancy that
you may need it.”

“ I presume that every elementary school¬
master does.”

“ Yes, sir, but it is only fair to you to warn
you that there may be some especially trying
circumstances in this particular situation.
1 )r. Phelps McCarthy does not make such a
condition without some very good and press¬
ing reason.”

There was a certain solemnity in his speech
which struck a chill in the delight with which
I had welcomed this providential vacancy.

“ May I ask the nature of these circum¬
stances ? ” I asked.

“ We endeavour to hold
the balance equally between
our clients, and to be per¬
fectly frank with all of them.

If I knew of objections to you
I should certainly communi¬
cate them to Dr. McCarthy,
and so I have no hesitation
in doing as much for you. I
find,” he continued, glancing
over the pages of his ledger,

“that within the last twelve
months we have supplied no
fewer than seven Latin
masters to Willow Lea House
Academy, four of them hav¬
ing left so abruptly as to
forfeit their month’s salary,
and none of them having
stayed more than eight weeks.”

“ And the other masters ?

Have they stayed ? ”

“ There is only one other
residential master, and he
appears to be unchanged.

You can understand, Mr.

Weld,” continued the agent,
closing both the ledger and
the interview, “ that such
rapid changes are not desir¬
able from a master’s point of
view, whatever may be said

for them by an agent working on commission.
I have no idea why these gentlemen have
resigned their situations so early. 1 can only
give you the facts, and advise you to see
Dr. McCarthy at once and to form your own
conclusions.”

Great is the power of the man who has
nothing to lose, and it was therefore with
perfect serenity, but with a good deal of
curiosity, that I rang early that afternoon
the heavy wrought-iron bell of the Willow
Lea House Academy. The building was a
massive pile, square and ugly, standing in its
own extensive grounds, with a broad carriage-
sweep curving up to it from the road. It
stood high, and commanded a view on the
one side of the grey roofs and bristling spires
of Northern London, and on the other of
the well-wooded and beautiful country which
fringes the great city. The door was opened
by a boy in buttons, and I was shown into a
well-appointed study, where the principal of
the academy presently joined me.

The warnings and insinuations of the agent
had prepared me to meet a choleric and
over-bearing person—one whose manner was

“the PRINCIPAL of the ACAPEMY,”

ROUND THE FIRE.

367

an insupportable provocation to those who
worked under him. Anything further from
the reality cannot be imagined. He was a
frail, gentle creature, clean-shaven and round-
shouldered, with a bearing which was so
courteous that it became almost deprecating.
His bushy hair was thickly shot with grey,
and his age I should imagine to verge upon
sixty. His voice was low and suave, and he
walked with a certain mincing delicacy of
manner. His whole appearance was that of
a kindly scholar, who was more at home
among his books than in the practical affairs
of the world.

“ I am sure that we shall be very happy to
have your assistance, Mr.

Weld,” said he, after a
few professional questions.

“ Mr. Percival Manners
left me yesterday, and I
should be glad if you
could take over his duties
to-morrow.”

“ May I ask if that is
Mr. Percival Manners of
Selwyn’s ? ” I asked.

“ Precisely. Did you
know him ? ”

“ Yes, he is a friend of
mine.”

“An excellent teacher
but a little hasty in his
disposition. It was his
only fault. Now, in your
case, Mr. Weld, is your
own temper under good
control ? Supposing for
argument’s sake that I
were to so far forget
myself as to be rude to
you or to speak roughly
or to jar your feelings in
any way, could you rely
upon yourself to control
your emotions ? ”

I smiled at the idea of
this courteous, little, mincing creature ruffling
my nerves.

“ I think that I could answer for it, sir,”
said I.

“ Quarrels are very painful to me,” said he.
“ I wish everyone to live in harmony under
my roof. I will not deny that Mr. Percival
Manners had provocation, but I wish to find
a man who can raise himself above provoca¬
tion, and sacrifice his own feelings for the
sake of peace and concord.”

“ I will do my best, sir.”

“ Yqu cannot say more, Mr. Weld. In

that case I shall expect you to-night, if you
can get your things ready so soon.”

I not only succeeded in getting my things
ready, but I found time to call at the
Benedict Club in Piccadilly, where I knew
that I should find Manners if he were still in
town. There he was sure enough in the
smoking-room, and I questioned him, over a
cigarette, as to his reasons for throwing up
his recent situation.

“ You don’t tell me that you are going to
Dr. Phelps McCarthy’s Academy ? ” he cried,
staring at me in surprise. “ My dear chap, it’s
no use. You can’t possibly remain there.”

“ But I saw him, and he seemed the most

courtly, inoffensive fellow. I never met a
man with more gentle manners.”

“ He ! oh, he’s all right. There’s no vice
in him. Have you seen Theophilus St.
James ? ”

“ I have never heard the name. Who is
he?”

“Your colleague. The other master.”

“No, I have not seen him.”

“ He's the terror. If you can stand him,
you have either the spirit of a perfect
Christian or else you have no spirit at all,
A more perfect bounder never bounded,”

“ MY DEAR CHAP, IT’s NO USE.”

3 68

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

“But why does McCarthy stand it ? ”

My friend looked at me significantly
through his cigarette smoke, and shrugged
his shoulders.

“You will form your own conclusions
about that. Mine were formed very soon,
and I never found occasion to alter them.”

“It would help me very much if you
would tell me them.”

“ When you see a man in his own house
allowing his business to be ruined, his
comfort destroyed, and his authority defied
by another man in a subordinate position,
and calmly submitting to it without so much
as a word of protest, what conclusion do you
come to ? ”

“ That the one has a hold over the other.”

Percival Manners nodded his head.

“ There you are ! You’ve hit it first barrel.
It seems to me that there’s no other explana¬
tion which will cover the facts. At some
period in his life the little Doctor has gone
astray. Hitmanmn est
errare. I have even
done it myself. But
this was something-
serious, and the other
man got a hold of it
and has never let go.

That’s the truth. Black¬
mail is at the bottom of
it. But he had no hold
over me, and there was
no reason why I should
stand his insolence, so I
came away—and I very
much expect to see you
do the same.”

For some time he
talked over the matter,
but he always came to the
same conclusion — that
I should not retain my
new situation very long.

It was with no very
pleasant feelings after
this preparation that I
found myself face to face
with the very man of
whom I had received so
evil an account. Dr.

McCarthy introduced us
to each other in his
study upon the evening of that same day
immediately after my arrival at the school.

“ This is your new colleague, Mr. St.
James,” said he, in his genial, courteous
fashion. “ I trust that you will mutually
agree, and that I shall find nothing but

good feeling and sympathy beneath this
roof.”

I shared the good Doctor’s hope, but my
expectations of it were not increased by the
appearance of my confrb'e. Fie was a young,
bull-necked fellow about thirty years of age,
dark-eyed and black-haired, with an exceed¬
ingly vigorous physique. I have never seen
a more strongly built man, though he tended
to run to fat in a way which showed that he
was in the worst of training. His face was
coarse, swollen, and brutal, with a pair of
small black eyes deeply sunken in his head.
His heavy jowl, his projecting ears, and his
thick bandy legs all went to make up a
personality which was as formidable as it was
repellent.

“ I hear you’ve never been out before,”
said he, in a rude, brusque fashion. “ Well,
it’s a poor life : hard work and starvation pay,
as you’ll find out for yourself.”

“ But it has some compensations,” said

the principal. “ Surely you will allow that,
Mr. St. James?”

“ Has it ? I never could find them.
What do you call compensations ? ”

“ Even to be in the continual presence of
youth is a privilege; It has the effect of

ROUND THE FIRE.

369

keeping youth in one’s own soul, for one
reflects something of their high spirits and
their keen enjoyment of life.”

“ Little beasts ! ” cried my colleague.

“ Come, come, Mr. St. James, you are too
hard upon them.”

“ I hate the sight of them ! If I could
put them and their blessed copybooks and
lexicons and slates into one bonfire I’d do it
to-night.”

“ This is Mr. St. James’s way of talking,”
said Hie principal, smiling nervously as he
glanced at me. “You must not take him too
seriously. Now, Mr. Weld, you know where
your room is, and no doubt you have your
own little arrangements to make. The
sooner you make them the sooner you will
feel yourself at home.”

It seemed to me that he was only too
anxious to remove me at once from the
influence of this extraordinary colleague, and
1 was glad to go, for the conversation .had
become embarrassing.

And so began an epoch which always
seems to me as I look back to it to be the
most singular in all my experience. The
school was in many ways an excellent one.
Dr. Phelps McCarthy was an ideal principal.
His methods were modern and rational. The
management was all that could be desired.
And yet in the middle of this well-ordered
machine there intruded the incongruous and
impossible Mr. St. James, throwing every¬
thing into confusion. His duties were to
teach English and mathematics, and how he
acquitted himself of them I do not know, as
our classes were held in separate rooms. I
can answer for it, however, that the boys
feared him and loathed him, and I know
that they had good reason to do so, for
frequently my own teaching was interrupted
by his bellowings of anger, and even by the
sound of his blows. Dr. McCarthy spent
most of his time in his class, but it was, I
suspect, to watch over the master rather than
the boys, and to try to moderate his ferocious
temper when it threatened to become
dangerous.

It was in his bearing to the head master,
however, that my colleague’s conduct was
most outrageous. The first conversation
which I have recorded proved to be typical
of their intercourse. He domineered over
him openly and brutally. I have heard him
contradict him roughly before the whole
school. At no time would he show him any
mark of respect, and my temper often rose
within me when I saw the quiet acquiescence
of the old Doctor, and his patient tolerance

Vol. xvii.—47

of this monstrous treatment. And yet the
sight of it surrounded the principal also with
a certain vague horror in my mind, for
supposing my friend’s theory to be correct—
and I could devise no better one—how black
must have been the story which could be
held over his head by this man and, by fear
of its publicity, force him to undergo such
humiliations. This quiet, gentle Doctor
might be a profound hypocrite, a criminal, a
forger possibly, or a poisoner. Only such a
secret as this could account for the complete
power which the young man held over him.
Why else should he admit so hateful a
presence into his house and so harmful an
influence into his school? Why should he
submit to degradations which could not be
witnessed, far less endured, without indig¬
nation ?

And yet, if it were so, I was forced to
confess that my principal carried it off with
extraordinary duplicity. Never by word or
sign did he show that the young man’s
presence was distasteful to him. I have
seen him look pained, it is true, after some
peculiarly outrageous exhibition, but he gave
me the impression that it was always on
account of the scholars or of me, never on
account of himself. He spoke to and of
St. James in an indulgent fashion, smiling
gently at what made my blood boil within
me. In his way of looking at him and
addressing him, one could see no trace of
resentment, but rather a sort of timid and
deprecating good will. His company he
certainly courted, and they spent many hours
together in the study and the garden.

As to my own relations with Theophilus
St. James, I made up my mind from the
beginning that I should keep my temper
with him, and to that resolution I steadfastly
adhered. If Dr. McCarthy chose to permit
this disrespect, and to condone these out¬
rages" it was his affair and not mine. It was
evident that his one wish was- that there
should be peace between us, and I felt that
I could help him best by respecting this
desire. My easiest way to do so was to avoid
my colleague, and this I did to the best of
my ability. When we were thrown together
I was quiet, polite, and reserved. He, on his
part, showed me no ill-will, but met me
rather with a coarse joviality, and a rough
familiarity which he meant to be ingratiating.
He was insistent in his attempts to get me
into his room at night, for the purpose of
playing euchre and of drinking.

“ Old McCarthy doesn’t mind,” said he.
“ Don’t you be afraid of him. We’ll do what

37 o

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

we like, and I’ll answer for it that he won’t
object.” Once only I went, and when I left,
after a dull and gross evening, my host was
stretched dead drunk upon the sofa. After
that I gave the excuse of a course of study,
and spent my spare hours alone in my own
room.

One point upon which I was anxious to
gain information was as to how long these
proceedings had been going on. When did
St. James assert his hold over Dr. McCarthy?
From neither of them could I learn how
long my colleague
had been in his
present situation.

One or two lead¬
ing questions upon
my part were
eluded or ignored
in a manner so
marked that it was
easy to see that
they were both of
them as eager to
conceal the point
as I was to know
it. But at last one
evening I had the
chance of a chat
with Mrs. Carter,
the matron — for
the Doctor was a
widower —- and
from her I got the
information which
I wanted. It
needed no ques¬
tioning to get at
her knowledge, for
she was so full
of indignation that
she shook with
passion as she
spoke of it, and
raised her hands into the air in the earnest¬
ness of her denunciation, as she described
the grievances which she had against my
colleague.

“ It was three years ago, Mr. Weld, that
he first darkened this doorstep,” she cried.
“Three bitter years they have been to me.
The school had fifty boys then. Now it has
twenty-two. That’s what he has done for
us in three years. In another three there
won’t be one. And the Doctor, that angel
of patience, you see how he treats him,
though he is not fit to lace his boots for him.
If it wasn’t for the Doctor, you may be sure
that I wouldn’t stay an hour under the same

roof with such a man, and so I told him to
his own face, Mr. Weld. If the Doctor would
only pack him about his business—but I
know that I am saying more than I should ! ”
She stopped herself with an effort, and spoke
no more upon the subject. She had remem¬
bered that I was almost a stranger in the
school, and she feared that she had been
indiscreet.

There were one or two very singular points
about my colleague. The chief one was that
he rarely took any exercise. There was a
playing - field
within the college
grounds, and that
was his furthest
point. If the boys
went out, it was I
or Dr. McCarthy
who accompanied
them. St. James
gave as a reason
for this that he
had injured his
knee some years
before, and that
walking was pain¬
ful to him. For
my own part I put
it down to pure
laziness upon his
part, for he was of
an obese, heavy
temperam en t.
Twice however I
saw him from my
window stealing
out of the grounds
late at night, and
the second time I
watched him re¬
turn in the grey
of the morning
and slink in
through an open window. These furtive
excursions were never alluded to, but they
exposed the hollowness of his story about
his knee, and they increased the dislike and
distrust which I had of the man. His nature
seemed to be vicious to the core.

Another point, small but suggestive, was
that he hardly once during the months
that I was at Willow Lea House received
any letters, and on those few occasions they
were obviously tradesmen’s bills. I am an
early riser, and used every morning to pick
my own correspondence out of the bundle
upon the hall table. I could judge therefore
how few were ever there for Mr. Theophilus

THREE BITTER YEARS THEY HAVE BEEN TO ME.”

ROUND THE FIRE,

37 i

St. James. There seemed to me to be
something peculiarly ominous in this. What
sort of a man could he be who during thirty
years of life had never made a single friend,
high or low, who cared to continue to keep
in touch with him? And yet the sinister
fact remained that the head master not only
tolerated, but was even intimate with him.
More than once on entering a room I have
found them talking confidentially together,
and they would walk arm in arm in deep
conversation up and down the garden paths.
So curious did I become to know what the
tie was which bound them, that I found it
gradually push out my other interests and
become the main purpose of my life.
In school and out of school, at meals
and at play, I was perpetually engaged in
watching Dr. Phelps McCarthy and Mr.
Theophilus St. James, and in endeavouring
to solve the mystery . which surrounded
them.

But, unfortunately, my curiosity was a little
too open. I had not the art to conceal
the suspicions which I felt about the relations
which existed between these two men and the
nature of the hold which the one appeared
to have over the other. It may have been
my manner of watching them, it may have
been some indiscreet question, but it is cer¬
tain that I showed too clearly what I felt.
One night I was conscious that the eyes of
Theophilus St. James were fixed upon me in
a surly and menacing stare. I had a fore¬
boding of evil, and I was not surprised when
Dr. McCarthy called me next morning into
his study.

“ I am very sorry, Mr. Weld/’ said he,
“ but I am afraid that I shall be compelled
to dispense with your services.”

“ Perhaps you would give me some reason
for dismissing me,” I answered, for I was
conscious of having done my duties to the
best of my power, and knew well that only
one reason could be given.

“ I have no fault to find with you,” said he,
and the colour came to his cheeks.

“Yet you send me away at the suggestion
of my colleague.”

His eyes turned away from mine.

“ We will not discuss the question, Mr.
Weld. It is impossible for me to discuss it. In
justice to you, I will give you the strongest
recommendations for your next situation. 1
can say no more. I hope that you will
continue your duties here until you have
found a place elsewhere.”

My whole soul rose against the injustice of
it, and yet I had no appeal and no redress.

I could only bow and leave the room, with a
bitter sense of ill-usage at my heart.

My first instinct was to pack my boxes
and leave the house. But the head master
had given me permission to remain until
I had found another situation. I was
sure that St. James desired me to go,
and that was a strong reason why I should
stay. If my presence annoyed him, I should
give him as much of it as I could. I had
begun to hate him and to long to have my
revenge upon him. If he had a hold over our
principal, might not I in turn obtain one
over him ? It was a sign of weakness that
he should be so afraid of my curiosity. He
would not resent it so much if he had
not something to fear from it. I entered
my name once more upon the books of
the agents, but meanwhile I continued to
fulfil my duties at Willow Lea House, and so
it came about that I was present at the
denouement of this singular situation.

During that week—for it was only a week
before the crisis came—I was in the habit of
going down each evening, after the work of
the day was done, to inquire about my new
arrangements. One night, it was a cold and
windy evening in March, I had just stepped out
from the hall door when a strange sight met
my eyes. A man was crouching before one

A MAN WAS CROUCHING BEFORE ONE OF THE WINDOWS.”

372

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

of the windows of the house. His knees were
bent and his eyes were fixed upon the small
line of light between the curtain and the sash.
The window threw a square of brightness in
front of it, and in the middle of this the dark
shadow of this ominous visitor showed clear
and hard. It was but for an instant that I
saw him, for he glanced up and was off in a
moment through the shrubbery. I could hear
the patter of his feet as he ran down the road,
until it died away in the distance.

It was evidently my duty to turn back and
to tell Dr. McCarthy what I had seen. I
found him in his study. I had expected him
to be disturbed at such an incident, but I
was not prepared for the state of panic into
which he fell. He leaned back in his chair,
white and gasping, like one who has received
a mortal blow.

“ Which window, Mr. Weld ? ” he asked,
wiping his forehead. “ Which window
was it?”

“The next to the dining-room—Mr. St.
James’s window.”

“ Dear me ! Dear me ! This is, indeed,
unfortunate! A man looking through Mr.
St. James’s window ! ” He wrung his hands
like a man who is at his wits’ end what
to do.

“I shall be passing the police-station, sir.
Would you wish me to mention the matter ? ”

“No, no,” he cried, suddenly, mastering
his extreme agitation; “ I have no doubt
that it was some poor tramp who intended to
beg. I attach no importance to the incident
—none at all. Don’t let me detain you,
Mr. Weld, if you wish to go out.”

I left him sitting in his study with reassur¬
ing words upon his lips, but with horror upon
his face. My heart was heavy for my little
employer as I started off once more for town.
As I looked back from the gate at the; square
of light which marked the window of my
colleague, I suddenly saw the black outline
of Dr. McCarthy’s figure passing against the
lamp. He had hastened from his study
then to tell St. James what he had heard.
What was the meaning of it all, this atmo¬
sphere of mystery, this inexplicable terror,
these confidences between two such dis¬
similar men ? I thought and thought as I
walked, but do what I would I could not
hit upon any adequate conclusion. I little
knew how near I was to the solution of the
problem.

It was very late—nearly twelve o’clock—
when I returned, and the lights were all out
save one in the Doctor’s study. The black,
gloomy house loomed before me as I walked

up the drive, its sombre bulk broken only by
the one glimmering point of brightness. I
let myself in with my latch-key, and was about
to enter my own room when my attention
was arrested by a short, sharp cry like that
of a man in pain. I stood and listened, my
hand upon the handle of my door.

All was silent in the house save for a
distant murmur of voices, which came, I.
knew, from the Doctor’s room. I stole
quietly down the corridor in that direction.
The sound resolved itself now into two voices,
the rough, bullying tones of St. James and
the lower tone of the Doctor, the one appar¬
ently insisting and the other arguing and
pleading. Four thin lines of light in the
blackness showed me the door of the Doctor’s
room, and step by step I drew nearer to it in
the darkness. St. James’s voice within rose
louder and louder, and his words now came
plainly to my ear.

“ I’ll have every pound of it. If you won’t
give it to me I’ll take it. Do you hear? ”

Dr. McCarthy’s reply was inaudible, but
the angry voice broke in again.

“ Leave you destitute ! I leave you this
little gold-mine of a school, and that’s enough
for one old man, is it not ? How am I to
set up in Australia without money ? Answer
me that! ”

Again the Doctor said something in a
soothing voice, but his answer only roused
his companion to a higher pitch of fury.

“ Done for me! What have you ever
done for me except what you couldn’t help
doing ? It was for your good name, not for
my safety, that you cared. But enough talk!
I must get on my way before morning. Will
you open your safe or will you not ? ”

“Oh, James, how can you use me so?”
cried a wailing voice, and then there came a
sudden little scream of pain. At the sound
of that helpless appeal from brutal violence
I lost for once that temper upon which I
had prided myself. Every bit of manhood
in me cried out against any further neutrality.
With my walking-cane in my hand I rushed
into the study. As I did so I was conscious
that the hall-door bell was violently ringing.

“You villain ! ” I cried, “ let him go ! ”

The two men were standing in front of
a small safe, which stood against one wall
of the Doctor’s room. St. James held the
old man by the wrist, and he had twisted
his arm round in order to force him to
produce the key. My little head master,
white but resolute, was struggling furiously
in the grip of the burly athlete. The bully
glared over his shoulder at me with a mixture

ROUND THE FIRE .

373

looked about me he gave a great cry of relief.
“ Thank God ! ” he cried. “ Thank God ! ”

“ Where is he ? ” I asked, looking round
the room. As I did so, I became aware
that the furniture was scattered in every
direction, and that there were traces of an
even more violent struggle than that in which
I had been engaged.

The Doctor sank his face between his hands.

“ They have him,” he
groaned. “ After these
years of trial they have
him again. But how
thankful I am that he
has not for a second
time stained his hands
in blood.”

As the Doctor spoke
I became aware that a
man in the braided
jacket of an inspector
of police was standing
in the doorway.

“ Yes, sir,” he re¬
marked, “you have had
a pretty narrow escape.
If we had not got in
when we did, you would
not be here to tell the
tale. I don’t know that
I ever saw anyone much
nearer to the under¬
taker.”

1 sat up with my hands
to my throbbing head.

“ Dr. McCarthy,” said
I, “ this is all a mystery
to me. I should be glad
if you could explain to
me who this man is, and
why you have tolerated
him so long in your
house.”

“ I owe you an explanation, Mr. Weld—
and the more so since you have, in so

chivalrous a fashion, almost sacrificed your
life in my defence. There is no reason now
for secrecy. In a word, Mr. Weld, this un¬
happy man’s real name is James McCarthy,
and he is my only son.”

“ Your son ? ”

“ Alas, yes. What sin have I ever com¬
mitted that I should have such a punishment ?
He has made my whole life a misery from
the first years of his boyhood. Violent,

headstrong, selfish, unprincipled, he has
always been the same. At eighteen he was
a criminal. At twenty, in a paroxysm of
passion, he took the life of a boon corn-

rushed in at me with a murderous growl, and
seized me by the throat with both his muscular
hands. I fell backwards and he on the top
of me, with a grip which was squeezing the
life from me. I was conscious of his malig¬
nant yellow-tinged eyes within a few inches of
my own, and then with a beating of pulses
in my head and a singing in my ears, my
senses slipped away from me. But even in
that supreme moment I was aware that the
door-bell was still violently ringing.

When I came to myself, I was lying upon
the sofa in Dr. McCarthy’s study, and the
Doctor himself was seated beside me. He
appeared to be watching me intently and
anxiously, for as I opened my eyes and

of fury and terror upon his brutal features.
Then, realizing that I was alone, he dropped
his victim and made for me with a horrible
curse.

“You infernal spy!” he cried. “I’ll do
for you anyhow before I leave.”

I am not a very strong man, and I realized
that I was helpless if once at close quarters.
Twice I cut at him with my stick, but he

“i CUT AT HIM WITH MY STICK.”

374

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

panion and was tried for murder. He only
just escaped the gallows, and he was con¬
demned to penal servitude. Three years ago
he succeeded in escaping, and managed, in
face of a thousand obstacles, to reach my
house in London. My wife’s heart had
been broken by his condemnation, and as
he had succeeded in getting a suit of ordinary
clothes, there was no one here to recognise him.
For months he lay concealed in the attics until
the first search of the police should be over.
Then I gave him employment here, as you
have seen, though by his rough and over¬
bearing manners he made my own life miser¬
able, and that of his fellow-masters unbear¬
able. You have been with us for four months,
Mr. Weld, but no other master endured
him so long. I apologize
now for all you have had
to submit to, but I ask you
what else could I do? For
his dead mother’s sake I
could not let harm come to
him as long as it was in my
power to fend it off. Only
under my roof could he find
a refuge—the only spot in all
the world — and how could I
keep him here without its
exciting remark unless I gave
him some occupation ? I
made him English master
therefore, and in that capacity
I have protected him here for
three years. You have no
doubt observed that he never
during the daytime went
beyond the college grounds.

You now 7 understand the
reason. But when to-night
you came to me with your
report of a man who was
looking through his window',

I understood that his retreat
w r as at last discovered. I
besought him to fly at once,
but he had been drinking,
the unhappy fellow r , and my
w r ords fell upon deaf ears.

When at last he made up
his mind to go he wished to

take from me in his flight every shilling
w r hich I possessed. It was your entrance
which saved me from him, w r hile the police
in turn arrived only just in time to rescue
you. I have made myself amenable to the
law by harbouring an escaped prisoner,
and remain here in the custody of the
inspector, but a prison has no terrors for
me after what I have endured in this house
during the last three years.”

“ It seems to me, Doctor,” said the
inspector, “ that, if you have broken the
law r , you have had quite enough punishment
already.”

“ God know r s I have ! ” cried Dr. McCar¬
thy, and sank his haggard face upon his
hands.

DR. MCCARTHY SANK HIS HAGGARD FACE UPON HIS HANDS.

Letters of Burne-Jones to a Child.

'TAT ELY, great men un¬
bend before little children.
Thackeray loved them, wrote
to them, and drew pictures for
them. Dickens played with

-the little ones as if he, too,

were young; and the story of Lewis Carroll’s

for rest and recuperation. They extended
over a period of several years, and were
written either in the style and spelling of
youth, or in more stately diction and ortho¬
graphy, just as it suited his whim to write.
None of them are dated, but one of them,
we believe, was written shortly before he died.

The first letter which we select introduces
us to one or two persons and places figuring
throughout the correspondence. It is orna¬
mented on the first page with a picture of a
cat with twenty-two hairs on her body, and
underneath is the inscription, “ This is ole.”
Two other drawings in the letter are repro¬
duced on this page. Here is the letter—

The Grange, West Kensington, W.

My dearest-,—here is the tikets i said i would

send i enjoyed my vissit so much such a much may i
come again i liked that hook about you i want to see
it again this is ole i want to play with ole I wish you
lived in the next stret i am cross to-day (i)

Your offectxionett dear frend

e b j.

I thought your drawings was very nice in that book
and the prefesser said so in his roport this (2) is the
grang i remain your lovig

e b j.

I sine my drawings now e b j.

buoyant youthfulness and sympathy
with the tots of the nursery was
recently told in this Magazine, and
showed a new phase of a beautiful life.

To-day we are able to print a few
letters written by the late Sir Edward
Burne-Jones to a child, in which the
mind and the pen of the great artist,
now still, were lavish in youthful
tenderness and humour. Few will be
surprised that the imaginative creator
of “The Briar Rose” and “The
Golden Stairs ” — the quiet, earnest
painter—possessed this sweet side to
his nature, but many will now look
upon the evidence of it for the
first time.

The letters passed between him
and a little girl who lived in London.
Some of them were composed at
The Grange, West Kensington, the
old - fashioned brick house which
Richardson, the novelist, once
inhabited. Others were written at
Rottingdean, whither the artist went

a ^

/
/£*?**/

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

37<5

JkcN *7 ^^hAf

L /Au*yU

</ ?'

4l-

It is noticeable that one of the principal
personages in the correspondence is not
mentioned in the first
letter. We refer to
the nightmare, or
“ nitemare,” variously
spelled but always
potent. We get his
picture in a letter
soon to follow. The
present epistle shows
the artist to have
been a man of exqui-
site skill in the
pictorial representa¬
tion of the British
railway system, while
his knowledge of the
topography of Kew

Gardens is beyond re- no . 3 .

proach. He writes :—

My darling- .

i can wright without ruling lines butt i am older
than you i liked your letter very much i am quit well i
hope you are quit well and ole and all of you is quit
well i am drawing to day i had nitemare in the nite an
was fritened but i wos very brave and didnt mind
becorse i am a man, it may come agen if it liks but
i hope it won’t now i dont know what to say but i
hope you are quit well i mean to come and see you
some day very soon

(3) that is Kew gardns i shall come by railway
—if you havent seen a railway it is like this (4) and a
tunel is like this (4) and is horrerble but it doesnt
friten me because I am a man

Your afffecxtnet frend

e burne jones

About this time it appears the artist was
tired of his surroundings and decided to
make a “foreign 55 trip.
Possibly it was a
recurrent visit of our
old friend the night¬
mare, whom we see
in the following letter
standing in spectre¬
like fulness of might
over the artist’s
couch. He announced
his intentions as
follows: —

The Grange,
West Kensington, W.
my darling -

/w *

i am going away abroad
to rotting dean which is
near brigten i am going on
Fridy i dont want to go
— i like playing with
paints in lundon best perhaps I shall not see you
byfour I go will you write to me when i am there and
amuse me and say how you are i will draw you a
picture of rottindene when i am there i can’t do it
away nobody can draw things away

■£ ^ ^

//u*

NO. 4.

NO. 5.

i shall probly be away a long time i like the hot
wether i had niternayer last nite and the nite
before (5)

i hav not been quit well

(5) a blakbird

now i must conclude i send you my love i hope you
are quit well and your ma ma is better

Your aflfxently

e burne jones

LETTERS OF BURNE-JONES TO A CHILD.

At last he got away from the gloominess of
London, and lost no time in detailing to his
little correspondent the stirring events of a
perilous trip from London to Brighton.

I got here quite safe—after a dangerous crossing—
the Thames was very rough at Grosvenor road but
in about two minutes our train had crossed & we
came into Clapham Junction not much the worse for
the journey—there we stayed about a minute, and
entered the Redhill
Tunnel punctually at

11.45.

Redhill has a pop. of
15,000 souls, mostly Non¬
conformist— it boasts a
chapel of yellow v brick
with a slate roof and a
stucco front and is re¬
markable for the vigour
of its political opinions.

It was about one
o’clock when we neared
Rottingdean — as we
drove ^into the village
as many as four of the
inhabitants rushed to the
doors to witness the
event For the last four¬
teen hundred years social
life has stagnated in ^

Rottingdean — and the
customs of the folk are
interesting to the anti¬
quarian and repay his
investigation to a re¬
markable degree—I my
self have contributed
some unusual customs.

O but I wish you would both—you and your
mama take train tomorrow & come here & be
made much of—I do.

I eihaps it will rain tomorrow & then you wont go
on the river of course I dont want you disappointed

but if it were to rain—& rain is very seasonable
now & good for turnips & seeds generally—you would
not go.

Farewell & the softest & sweetest of* times for
you both I am likely to be away for a long period- -
but its no use coming so

377

pre¬

take

far unless I am
pared to rest &
advantage of the change
—at the earliest I am
not likely to be back
before about the middle
of Tuesday — & may
possibly be delayed till
towards the end of the
afternoon ....

Yours aft* ebj

Alas ! The outing
was evidently not a
happy one. Crowing cocks and bad weather
played havoc with a sensitive nature, yet could
not entirely kill a dainty humour. Thus the
artist wrote to his little correspondent:—

Rottingdean

O my dear- Nr Brighton.

I m going back to pretty London tomorrow—
havent liked this time at all—cold—windy—urav_

Vol. xvii.—48. J J

not nice watery gray but cross sulky even gray—
havent like it a bit.

I have improved in drawing I think—here is a
portrait of my chief enemy here-a fool of a cock
( 6 ) really shaped like this who crows & crows &
when doesn’t he crow ! at at night—at 2 in the
morning—at 2 in the afternoon—at 7 in the evening—
at any time he likes, but not when poets say he crows
—no sunrise for him . . . him and . . . him and b

. . th . . r him. And amongst his wives he’s like Herod

the Great and Henry
the Eighth — he’s very
wicked dear — lie’s like
some men & I ha:e him.

The page now
turns over, and at
the top we are
startled by the
appearance of a
great, sleepy porker
( 7 ) sprawling out in
all his affluence of
flesh on the sea¬
shore. Jubilantly
the artist writes :—

But this is a friend
of mine & does no haim
— grunts a little when
lie’s happy, but is very
good & u n p r e t e n d i n g,

& bears his fate cheer¬
fully for pork pies he
has to be. Fare-very-
well dear

Your old friend
e b j.

The childish spelling adds a wonderful
interest to these remarkable letters. From
The Grange he once wrote :—

i like your lettrs very much i like firworks i am to be
taken to Sidnam to see them at the Cristal Pals i am
quit well i wish you were in london nobody is in
london except tradspeople and i am not to play with
them because i am above them in rank so there is
nobody to play with but i am aloud to paint
all day with callers and
i like that at rotting
dean there is a cok
with no tail he does
look silly . . .

The letter ends
with, a small pen
drawing of the
silly cock, and an
equestrian drawing
of “the duke of
Wellanton,” in which
the big nose of the
hero is prominently displayed. Evidently
the “ duke ” was a favourite with both
artist and child, for he figures in several
letters.

We catch several glimpses in the letters of
the artist in his grey moods. He has a
horror of bad weather, and when business
calls him back to London he longs for the

NO. 6.

37 §

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

bright skies of Rottingdean. On a Sun¬
day he writes from The Grange

serve as signatures. We have
several of them in these pages.
One letter he writes on most gaudy
paper, containing a startling red
border nearly two inches wide,
decorated with large white spots.
The paper is even too startling for
his sensitive eye, and he apologizes
for it in the following words :—

Oh my dear-little-

I do think this paper is too horrible
to send even as a joke — but as I
promised-

He then asks her to come to see
him, and says :—

I will give you two days notice, and
this delissous time at Kensington is
coming to an end and when you are back

dear-.

Back I am here & a nice day you have
prepared for me—Oh do you expect me to
endure such days—& I left bright sunshine
and blue sky & green hills & myriads of rooks
in the air — & tiled floors, & black oak &
white walls, & log fires, to come back to
this nasty black sooty damp filthy hole of
a place.

So will you be very kind to me & spoil
me, for all I endure ? & a parcel of books &
paint rags has come thank your ever
blessed mammy for them. Mighty useful will the
rags be—such a heap — just as many rags again &

I would begin trying to rub London out with them.

I have come back so fat & well & ever
Your aflfte. (8)

y ^ t/ ' ^

NO. 9.

NO. 8.

Later, the fogs
oppress him and
he cries :—

Oh-. I am so

bad—such a sore
throat — all rags and
tatters—

and the fogs are
fiendish and are killing
Your aff
EBJ.

That poor orphan —
give him my love—
and all of them—I
am not to go out for
a week or more and
this (9) isnt a nice life
at all.

Perhaps the
most amusing of
the pictures which
he drew are those
of himself which

NO. IO.

379

LETTERS OF BURNE-JONES TO A CHILD.

/Lx. A+j LU'Xt^

at*-1 shall never see you—because I could never

find my way I know—& cant take railway
tickets—and can do nothing but pictures—and

there are some people,-, who say I cant do

that—would you believe it ?

Always your afft.

(io)

Evidently the two friends were now
for awhile parted, and the little girl had
gone on a vacation. Her leisure was
lightened by the following letter :—

Monday,

The Grange,

West Kensington, W.

Mv dear little-,

It seems to me you are enjoying yourself very
much—getting wet & draggletailed, & dabbling
in eel pits and the homes of newts. wish
I was there too, I do, playing with messes and
lolling about, & reading three lines of a book
& then tumbling into deep sleep, perhaps that
shall be by & bye — but now I am at work and
mustnt leave it (n)

And I am very well and quite fat again — hating

/X x

the thunder weather very much — & in evenings
resting altogether, but I am still bereft of babes,

&.is I dont know where — somewhere

in the outer world — &.&.at

the sea.

The artist then makes
a touching reference
to the illness of a dear
friend, and goes on
in sympathetic yet
lightsome mood :—

I went yesterday to
see an ill friend — a
dear one — & he being
eloquent & gifted
described an operation
that had been per¬
formed upon him so fully

no. 13 .

& so powerfully that I believe I shall have to be
operated upon too—for I feel full of horrors.

Good-bye, dear little Maiden, and give them all
my love. Your aff

ebj.

The following letter contains an
interesting reference to Damien, the
brave man who went out amongst the
lepers :—

Mr. Clifford came & brought me a little line
from Damien but writing is difficult to him &
he is dying now. One day when I as suddenly
meet you both in the highway will you be more
like this (12)

wernt at all like that yesterday. I have 'A a
mind to run over & see how you are to-day,
but it’s a busy day and I must be in town some
time to get things for foreign travel.

Your afft

Ebj.

At one time he sends her “2 tikets
for the privit view at the ryle acadmy ”;
at another, he sends his regrets for
inability to make an engagement, and,
at the end of the letter, breaks into
a . flood of tears, which figure con¬
spicuously on the sheet as nine ragged
lumps of red sealing-wax. “ These are
my tears,” he writes. He also sends a
pencil drawing of a dumpy and fluffy little
chicken just out of its shell. Again, when
inclosing a photograph, he says :—

Is this the photograph

of that old old old
old
old
old
old

OLD thing

you meant?

and later, in the same
letter, he adds:
“What a what of a
day — not meant
for work, was it ?

380

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Want to have
picnic on river
with friends I do.”

At another time
he writes his letter
as follows :—

at a bookshop
in town
My dear-.

I have brought you
a little reminder of
me—because you are
certain to forget the
discomfort I have
given you day after
day (so you cant re¬
member me for that
reason) and when
next I come—Friday
—I will blazon your
name in it—can’t do
it now, hands so
frozen.

This is a day when I hope you are all round the
fire snoozing and blinking softly, & passing the cat
from lap to lap :

ever your affectionate friend

(14)

And ends with another pictorial signature
which, had it not been done by himself,
would have been a libel on the kindly
features which all knew so well.

To the ordinary
reader these signatures
are most amusing
when they are most
abnormal in execution.

The artist was once
in Rottingdean at
Lammastide, yet it
was bitter cold, bright,
and cloudless, with
no mist or fog. He

>—r

could hardly
believe it was
summer, and
as proof of
his physical
condition he
appended to his
interesting little
gossip the accom¬
panying picture of
himself, shivering
on the hillside, a
lone figure in the
midst of a whirl¬
ing snowstorm.
Legs contorted
with wonderful
tortuosity, hair
drooping as if with
the weight of
icicles, and eyes staring into the distance
hopeless and forlorn—he stood in the fore¬
ground of a bleak landscape shivering. “ Oh,

tittle-, good bye,” he wrote. “ This is the

47th letter I have written this morning.” The
forty-seventh letter! Yet, at the end of all
that tiresome labour he had time to draw a
picture for the child he loved.

When the artist
* died there were more

sympathetic hearts
than one, and not
the least among them
was that of the child
who, in these letters,
had been shown the
tender and loving
qualities of a great
man.

NO. 15.

as ordinary seaman or boy, and nobody not
a penny the wiser. It’s happened before, an’
I’ve no doubt it will again.

W e ’ad a queer case once on a barque
I was on as steward, called the Tower of
London , bound from the Albert Docks to
Melbourne with a general cargo. We shipped
a new boy just after we started as was entered
in the ship’s books as ’Enery Mallow, an’ the
first thing we noticed about ’Enery was as
’e had a great dislike to work and was
terrible sea-sick. Every time there was a
job as wanted to be done, that lad ’ud go
and be took bad quite independent of the
weather.

IMMIN aboard ship I don’t
old with, said the night-
watchman, severely. They’ll
arsk you all sorts o’ silly
questions, an’ complain to the
skipper if you don’t treat ’em
civil in answering ’em. If you do treat ’em
civil, what’s the result ? Is it a bit o’ bacca,
or a shilling, or anything like that ? Not a
bit of it; just a 44 thank you,” an’ said in a
way as though they’ve been giving you a
perfect treat by talking to you.

They’re a contrary sects too. Ask a girl
civil-like to stand off a line you want to coil
up, and she’ll get off an’ look at you as though
you ought to have waited until she ’ad
offered to shift. Pull on it without asking
her to step off fust, an’ the ship won’t ’old
her ’ardly. A man I knew once—he’s dead
now, poor chap, and three widders mourning
for ’im — said that with all ’is experience
wimmin was as much a riddle to ’im as
when he fust married.

O’ course, sometimes you get a gal down
the fo’c’s’le pretending to be a man, shipping

Then Bill Dowsett adopted ’im, and said
he’d make a sailor of ’im. I believe if
’Enery could ’ave chose ’is father, he’d sooner
’ad any man than Bill, and I would sooner
have been a orphan than a son to any of
’em. Bill relied on his langwidge mostly, but
when that failed he’d just fetch ’im a cuff.
Nothing more than was good for a boy wot
ad got ’is living to earn, but ’Enery used to
cry until we was all ashamed of ’im.

Bill got almost to be afraid of fitting ’im at
last, and used to try wot being sarcastic
would do. Then we found as ’Enery was
ten times as sarcastic as Bill—’e’d talk all
round ’im so to speak, an’ even take the
words out of Bill’s mouth to use agin ’im.
Then Bill would turn to ’is great natural
gifts, and the end of it was when we was
about a fortnight out that the boy ran up on
deck and went aft to the skipper and com¬
plained of Bill’s langwidge.

“ Langwidge,” ses the old man, glaring
at ’im as if ’ed eat ’im— 44 what sort o’
langwidge ? ”

“ Bad langwidge, sir,” ses ’Enery.

“ Repeat it,” ses the skipper.

382 THE STRAND

’Enery gives a little shiver. “ I couldn’t do
it, sir,” he ses, very solemn ; “ it’s like—like
you was talking to the bo’sen yesterday.”

“ Go to your duties,” roars the skipper;
“go to your duties at once, and don’t let me
’ear any more of it. Why, you ought to be
at a young ladies’ school.”

“ I know I ought, sir,” ’Enery ses, with a
w’imper, “ but 1 never thought it’d be like
this.”

The old man stares at him, and then he
rubs his eyes and stares ag’in. ’Enery wiped
his eyes and stood looking down at the deck.

“ ’Eavens above,” ses the old man, in a
dazed voice, “ don’t tell me you’re a gal ! ”

“ I won’t if you don’t want me to,” ses
’Enery, wiping his eyes ag’in.

“ What’s your name ? ” ses the old man at
last.

“ Mary Mallow, sir,” ses ’Enery, very soft.

“ What made you do it ? ” ses the skipper,
at last.

“ My father wanted me to marry a man I
didn’t want to,” ses Miss Mallow. “He
used to admire my hair very much, so I cut
it off. Then I got frightened at what I’d
done, and as I looked like a boy I thought
I’d go to sea.”

“ Well, it’s a nice responsibility for me/’
ses the skipper, and he called the mate who
’ad just come on deck, and asked his advice.
The mate was a very strait-laced man -
for a mate—and at fust he was so shocked ’e
couldn’t speak.

“ She’ll have to come aft,” he ses, at last.

“ O’ course she will/' ses the skipper, and
he called me up and told me to clear a spare
cabin out for her—we carried a passenger or
two sometimes—and to fetch her chest up.

“ I s’pose you’ve got some clothes in it ? ”
he ses, anxious-like.

“ Only these sort o’ things,” ses Miss
Mallow, bashfully.

“And send Dowsett to me,” ses the
skipper, turning to me ag’in.

We ’ad to shove pore Bill up on deck
a’most, and the way the skipper went on at
’im, you’d thought ’e was the greatest rascal
unhung. He begged the young lady’s pardon
over and over ag’in, and when ’e come back
to us ’e was that upset that ’e didn’t know
what ’e was saying, and begged an ordinary
seaman’s pardon for treading on ’is -toe.

Then the skipper took Miss Mallow below
to her new quarters, and to ’is great surprise
caught the third officer, who was fond of
female society, doing a step-dance in the
saloon all on ’is own.

That evening the skipper and the mate

MAGAZINE .

formed themselves into a committee to
decide what was to be done. Everything
the mate suggested the skipper wouldn’t
have, and when the skipper thought of any-
think, the mate said it was impossible. After
the committee ’ad been sitting for three
hours it began to abuse each other; leastaways,
the skipper abused the mate, and the mate
kep’ on saying if it wasn’t for discipline he
knew somebody as would tell the skipper a
thing or two it would do ’im good to hear.

“ She must have a dress, I tell you, or a
frock at any rate,” ses the skipper, very mad.

“ What’s the difference between a dress
and a frock ? ” ses the mate.

“There is a difference,” ses the skipper.

“ Well, ..what is it ? ” ses the mate.

“ It wouldn’t be any good if I was to
explain to you,” ses the skipper; “ some
people’s heads are too thick.”

“ I know they are,” ses the mate.

The committee broke up after that, but it
got amiable ag’in over breakfast next morn¬
ing, and made quite a fuss over Miss Mallow.
It ’was wonderful what a difference a night
aft had made in that gal. She’d washed
herself beautiful, and had just frizzed ’er
’air, which was rather long, over er fore¬
head, and the committee kept pursing its
lips up and looking at each other as Mr.
Fisher talked to ’er and kep’ on piling ’er
plate up.

She went up on deck after breakfast and
stood leaning against the side talking to Mr.
Fisher. Pretty laugh she’d got, too, though
I never noticed it when she was in the
fo’c’s’le. Perhaps she hadn’t got much to
laugh about then, and while she was up
there enjoying ’erself watching us chaps
work, the committee was down below laying
its ’eds together ag’in.

When I went down to the cabin ag’in it
was like a dressmaker’s shop. There was
silk handkerchiefs and all sorts o’ things on
the table, an’ the skipper was hovering about
with a big pair of scissors in his hands,
wondering how to begin.

“ I sha’n’t attempt anything very grand,” he
ses at last; “just something to slip over
them boy’s clothes she’s wearing.”

' The mate didn’t say anything. He was
busy drawing frocks on a little piece of paper,
and looking at ’em with his head on one side
to see whether they looked better that way.

“ By Jove ! I’ve got it,” ses the old man,
suddenly. “ Where’s that dressing-gown your
wife gave you ? ”

The mate looked up. “ I don’t know,” he
ses, slowly. “ I’ve mislaid it.”

A QUESTION OF HABIT

“ Well, it can’t be far,” ses the skipper.
“ It’s just the thing to make a frock of.”

“I don’t think so,” ses the mate. “It
wouldn’t hang properly. Do you know what
1 was thinking of? ”

“ Well,” ses the skipper.

“ Three o’ them new flannel shirts o’ yours,”
ses the mate. “ They're very dark, an’ they’d
hang beautiful.”

“ Let’s try the dressing-gown first,” ses the
skipper, hearty-like. “That’s easier. I’ll help
you look for it.”

“ I can’t think what I’ve done with it,” ses
the mate.

“Well, let’s try your cabin,” ses the old man.

They went to the mate’s cabin and, to his
great surprise, there it was hanging just
behind the door. It was a beautiful dressing-
gown—soft, warm cloth trimmed with braid
—and the skipper took up his scissors ag’in,
and fairly gloated over it. Then he slowly
cut off the top part with the two arms ’anging
to it, and passed it over to the mate.

“ I sha’n’t want that, Mr. Jackson,” he ses,
slowly. “I daresay you’ll find it come in
useful.”

“ While you’re doing that, s’pose I get on
with them three shirts,” ses Mr. Jackson.

3^3

“ What three shirts ? ” ses the skipper, who
was busy cutting buttons off.

“Why, yours,” ses Mr. Jackson. “Let’s
see who can make the best frock.”

“ No, Mr. Jackson,” ses the old man.
“I’m sure you couldn’t make anything o’
them shirts. You’re not at all gifted that
way. Besides, I want ’em.”

“ Well, I wanted my dressing-gown, if you
come to that,” ses the mate, in a sulky voice.

“ Well, what on earth did you give it to me
for ? ” ses the skipper. “ I do wish you’d
know your own mind, Mr. Jackson.”

The mate didn’t say any more. He sat
and watched the old man, as he threaded
his needle and stitched the dressing-gown
together down the front. It really didn’t
look half bad when he’d finished it, and it
was easy to see how pleased Miss Mallow
was. She really looked quite fine in it, and
with the blue guernsey she was wearing and a
band made o’ silk handkerchiefs round her
waist, I saw at once it was a case with the
third officer.

“ Now you look a bit more like the gal
your father used to know,” ses the skipper.

“ My finger’s a bit sore just at present, but
by-and-by I’ll make you a bonnet.”

“ I’d like to see it,” ses the mate.

“ It’s quite easy,” ses the skipper. “ I’ve
seen my wife do ’em. She calls ’em tokes.
You make the hull' out o’ cardboard and
spread your canvas on that.”

That dress made a wonderful
difference in the gal. Wonder¬
ful ! She seemed to change all
at once and become the lady
altogether. She just ’ad that
cabin at her beck and call; and
as for me, she seemed to think
I was there a puppose to wait
on ’er.

I must say she ’ad a good
time of it. We was having
splendid weather, and there
wasn’t much work for anybody;
consequently, when she wasn’t
receiving good advice from the
skipper and the mate, she was
receiving attention from both
the second and third officers.
Mr. Scott, the second, didn’t
seem to take much notice of
her for a day or two, and the
first I saw of his being in love
was ’is being very rude to Mr.
Fisher and giving up bad lan-
gwidge, so sudden it’s a wonder
it didn’t do ’im a injury.

3 8 4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

NOW YOU LOOK MORE LIKE THE GAL YOUR FATHER USED TO KNOW.

I think the gal rather enjoyed their atten¬
tions at first, but arter a time she got fairly
tired of it. She never ’ad no rest, pore thing.
If she was up on deck looking over the side the
third officer would come up and talk romantic
to ’er about the sea and the lonely lives of
sailor men, and I acturally ’eard Mr. Scott
repeating poetry to her. The skipper ’eard
it too, and being suspicious o’ poetry, and
not having heard clearly, called him up to
’im and made ’im say it all over ag’in
to ’im. ’E didn’t seem quite to know wot
to make of it, so ’e calls up the mate
for ”im to hear it. The mate said it was
rubbish, and the skipper told Mr. Scott
that if ever he was taken that way ag’in
’ed ’ear more of it.

There was no doubt about them two young
fellers being genuine. She ’appened to say
one day that she could never, never care for
a man who drank and smoked, and I’m blest
if both of em didn’t take to water and give
’er their pipes to chuck overboard, and the
agony those two chaps used to suffer when
they saw other people smoking was pitiful to
witness.

It got to such a pitch at last that the mate,
who, as I said afore, was a very particular
man, called another committee meeting. It
was a very solemn affair, and ’e made a long
speech in which he said he was the father of

a family, and that the second and third officers
was far too attentive to Miss Mallow, and ’e
asked the skipper to stop it.

“ How?” ses the skipper.

“Stop the draught-playing and the card-
playing and the poetry,” ses the mate ; “the
gal’s getting too much attention ; she’ll have
’er ’ead turned. Put your foot down, sir,
and stop it.”

The skipper was so struck by what he said,
that he not only did that, but he went and
forbid them two young men to speak to the
gal except at meal times, or when the conver¬
sation was general. None of ’em liked it,
though the gal pretended to, and for the
matter of a week things was very quiet in
the cabin, not to say sulky.

Things got back to their old style ag’in in
a very curious way. I’d just set the tea in
the cabin one afternoon, and ’ad stopped at
the foot of the companion-ladder to let the
skipper and Mr. Fisher come down, when
we suddenly ’eard a loud box on the ear.
We all rushed into the cabin at once, and
there was the mate looking fairly thunder¬
struck, with his hand to his face, and Miss
Mallow glaring at ’im.

“ Mr. Jackson,” ses the skipper, in a awful
voice, ‘ what’s this ? ”

“ Ask her,” shouts the mate. “ I think
she’s gone mad or something.”

A QUESTION

“What does this mean, Miss Mallow?”
ses the skipper.

“Ask him,” ses Miss Mallow, breathing
very ’ard.

“ Mr. Jackson,” ses the skipper, very
severe, “ what have you been doing ? ”

“ Nothing,” roars
the mate.

“Was that a box
on the ear, I ’eard?”
ses the skipper.

“ It was,” says
the mate, grinding
his teeth.

“Your ear? ” ses
the skipper.

“Yes. She’s
mad, I tell you,”
ses the mate. “I
was sitting here
quite quiet and
peaceable, when
she came alongside
me and slapped my
face.”

“ Why did you
box his ear ?” ses
the skipper to the
girl again.*

“ Because he
deserved it,” ses
Miss Mallow.

The skipper shook his ’ead and looked at
the mate so sorrowful that he began to
stamp up and down the cabin and bang
the table with his fist.

“ If I hadn’t heard it myself, I couldn’t
have believed it,” ses the skipper; “and you
the father of a family, too. Nice example
for the young men, I must say.”

“Please don’t say anything more about it,”
ses Miss Mallow; “I’m sure he’s very sorry.”

“Very good,” ses the skipper;-“ but you
understand, Mr. Jackson, that if I overlook
your conduct, you’re not to speak to this
young lady ag’in. Also, you must consider
yourself as removed from the committee.”

“ Curse the committee,” screamed the
mate. “ Curse-”

He looked all round, with his eyes starting
out of ’is ’ead, and then suddenly shut his
mouth with a snap and went up on deck.

He never allooded to the affair again, and in
fact for the rest of the voyage ’e hardly spoke
to a soul. The young people got to their
cards and draughts ag’in, but he took no
notice, and ’e never spoke to the skipper
unless he spoke to ’im fust.

We got to Melbourne at last, and the fust

Vol. xvii.—49.

OF HABIT. 385

thing the skipper did was to give our young
lady some money to go ashore and buy
clothes with. He did it in a very delikit
way by giving her the pay as boy, and I
don’t think I ever see anybody look so
pleased and surprised as she did. The

skipper went ashore with her, as she looked
rather a odd figure to be going about, and
comes back about a hour later without ’er.

“I thought perhaps she’d have come
aboard,” he ses to Mr. Fisher. “ I managed
to miss her somehow while I was waiting out¬
side a shop.”

They fidgeted about a bit, and then went
ashore to look for ’er, turning up again at
eight o’clock quite worried. Nine o’clock
came, and there was no signs of ’er. Mr.
Fisher and Mr. Scott was in a dreadful state,
and the skipper sent almost every man
aboard ashore to search for ’er. They ’unted
for ’er high and low, up and down and round
about, and turned up at midnight so done
up that they could ’ardly stand without
holding on to somethink, and so upset that
they couldn’t speak. None of the officers
got any sleep that night except Mr. Jackson,
and the fust thing in the morning they was
ashore ag’in looking for her.

She’d disappeared as completely as if she’d
gone overboard, and more than one of the
chaps looked over the side half expecting to
see ’er come floating by. By twelve o'clock
most of us was convinced that she’d been

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

386

made away with, and Mr. Fisher made some
remarks about the police of Melbourne as
would ’a done them good to hear.

I was just going to see about dinner when
we got the first news of her. Three of the
most miserable and solemn-looking captains
I’ve ever seen came alongside and asked for
a few words with our skipper. They all
stood in a row looking as if they was going
to cry.

“ Good morning, Captain Hart,” ses one
of ’em, as our old man came up with the
mate.

“ Good morning,” ses he.

“ Do you know this ? ” ses one of ’em sud¬
denly, holding out Miss Mallow’s dressing-
gown on a walking-stick.

“ Good ’eavens,” ses the skipper, “ I hope
nothing’s happened to that pore gal.”

The three captains shook their heads
all together.

“ She is no more,” ses another of ’em.

“ How did it happen ? ” ses the skipper,
in a low voice.

“She took this off,” ses the first captain,
shaking his head and pointing to the dressing-
gown.

“ And took a chill ? ” ses the skipper,
staring very ’ard.

The three captains shook their ’eads ag’in,
and I noticed that they seemed to watch
each other and do it all together.

“ I don’t understand,”
ses the skipper.

.“I was afraid you
wouldn’t,” ses the first
captain; “she took this
off.”

“ So you said before,”
ses the skipper, rather
short.

“ And became a boy
ag’in,” ses the other; “the
wickedest and most artful
young rascal that ever
signed on with me.”

He looked round at the
others, and they all broke
out into a perfect roar of
laughter, and jumped up
and down and slapped
each other on the back,
as if they was all mad.
Then they asked which
was the one wot had ’is
ears boxed, and which was
Mr. Fisher and which was
Mr. Scott, and told our
skipper wot a nice fatherly
man he was. Quite a
crowd got round, an’
wouldn’t go away for all we
could do to ’em in the
shape o’ buckets o’ water
and lumps o’ coal. We
was the laughing-stock o’
the place, and the way they
carried on when the steamer passed us two
days later with the first captain on the bridge,
pretending not to see that imp of a bo>
standing in the bows blowing us kisses and
dropping curtsies, nearly put the skipper out
of’is mind.

In Nature's Workshop.

IV.—MASQUERADES AND DISGUISES.
By Grant Allen.

N a previous article of this
series, I introduced my readers
to certain bold and deceptive
insects—the “ bounders ” of
their race—which pretend to
powers they do not possess,
and endeavour by sheer bluff to frighten
away intruders on their domestic privacy.
In the present essay, I am going to touch on
sundry other wily animals which, either in
order to escape the notice of their foes or to
creep in silence upon their unwary prey,
imitate more or less closely other objects
in their surroundings—in simpler words,
walk about in masquerade. This paper is
thus to be devoted to the subject of
disguises. I propose, as it were, to go
behind the scenes, and show you the make¬
up of the principal characters in nature’s
melodrama of “Strictly Incognito.”

An ounce of example is worth a ton of
description : so I will begin with a simple
illustrative case among the class of fishes.
My illustration No. i shows a “person of
the drama ” without his make-up : it repre¬
sents that familiar little beastie, the common
sea-horse, or hippocampus. In his dried
condition, this quaint small Mediterranean
fish is a well-known denizen of every child’s
domestic museum. Visitors to Venice have
picked up sea-horses in abundance on the

sandy ridge of the Lido—that long bank of
shingle which divides the lagoons from the
open Adriatic, a spot which I have already
mentioned in this Magazine as a favourite
haunt of my own, and also of my good old
friend the sacred scarab, or ball-rolling
beetle. In most marine aquariums, too, the
sea-horse is a much-appreciated popular per¬
former : a group of them in the Brighton
Aquarium (which, though you may not know
it, contains tanks with fish in them) always
receives an early call from me whenever I
happen to be anywhere in their neigh¬
bourhood. By these means it comes about
that even those who do not go down to
the sea in ships have become fairly familiar
with the appearance of the sea-horse and
with his mode of life, which he pursues
unaltered — being indeed a sluggish and
phlegmatic brute—in a shallow basin as in
the open Mediterranean.

In general shape, as you see, the hippo¬
campus bears a striking resemblance to the
knight in a set of chessmen. But instead of
a round stand, he has a prehensile tail like
a monkey’s, by means of which he can
securely moor himself to pieces of seaweed
or other small objects. This is his usual
attitude when not swimming. No. 2 shows
a couple of hippocampi so curled together in
friendly companionship on a spray of some

2 .—A PAIR OF SEA-HORSES, MOORED TO A FUCUS.

3 88

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

fucus. One may often observe a dozen or
so of them thus intertwined by their tails
in an inextricable knot — inextricable, that
is to say, till you notice one of them
display a nascent desire in his small mind
to untie himself. Then you begin to per¬
ceive a sinuous wriggling movement in the
coils of his tail, which communicates itself
by degrees to his slimy comrades. For
about a minute the would-be rover is engaged
in disentangling his own nether part from
the nether parts of his companions ; at last,
with a triumphant gliding motion, he sets
himself free, and begins to swim, half upright,
as you see in No. i, with a sedate and
churchwardenly motion, through the water
about him. His fins, it is true, vibrate with
extraordinary rapidity, like a waving ribbon ;
in spite of which he moves almost impercep¬
tibly forward, and never goes more than a
foot or two at a time in any direction.
Though armed with a rather knobby and
prickly coat, the sea-horse is exposed by the
mere slowness of his gait to the attacks of
more active and energetic enemies.

Our European sea-horse, as you can see
in these illustrations, makes no pretence at
concealment: he moves about undisguised,
like an honest gentleman, and can be readily
recognised wherever you meet him. But
there is an Australian relative of his, the leaf¬
like sea-horse (known to men of science as
P hyllopteryx),
which is much
softer and more
palatable in the
body, and there¬
fore stands in
greater need of
protection from
predatory fishes.

This curious
ragged creature,
shown in No. 3,
has its tail and
fins provided
with irregular
long waving ap¬
pendages, exactly
resembling in
form and colour
the seaweed in which it lurks. In the draw¬
ing, to be sure, Mr. Enock has represented
the fish rather isolated, so as to let you clearly
distinguish it from the neighbouring weeds ;
but you can easily understand that in nature,
when it is lying hid in a knotted mass of
such seaweed among the overgrown rocks at
the bottom, it must be very difficult for even

the sharpest-eyed enemy to pick it out from
the fronds it so closely resembles. The tint,
in particular, is absolutely identical.

How does this quaint resemblance come
about ? Probably in this manner. All the
sea-horses of this kind which could be
discovered by enemies for many ages have
been assiduously eaten. If every one of
them had been eaten, however, the species
would now be extinct: and this is really
what has happened over and over again to
many species in the sea, as it has happened
on land in our own time to the American
bison, the great auk, the moa of New Zealand,
and several other creatures. But if any sea¬
horse of this more threatened class happened
to resemble the seaweed in which it lived,
either in form or in colour, or in both, rather
more than the rest of its kind, it would stand
on the whole a somewhat better chance of
not getting eaten, and would on the average
leave more offspring than its less protected
fellows. Thus, from generation to genera¬
tion, as enemies poked their noses into the
tangled weed in search of food, the tendency
would be for the more seaweed-like to escape
and mate, while the less seaweed-like were
detected and eaten. This is what we call
“ natural selection,” or “ survival of the
fittest.” The result would be that the pro¬
tected, mating always with the protected,
produced young like themselves, and that

out of their off¬
spring the ones
least like sea¬
weed would still
oftenest get de¬
voured, while
those most like
seaweed still
escaped.

The leaf-like
sea - horse is a
simple case of
what is now
known as pro¬
tective resem¬
blance. A very
similar instance
is that of the so-
called skeleton
shrimp, which also moors itself to bits
of seaweed, and looks just like the plant
it clings to. But the same sort of thing
occurs on a large scale among the entire
group of animals inhabiting what is called
the Sargasso Sea. This sea is a belt of the
Atlantic near the Azores, where great masses
of a particular tropical seaweed, known as

3.—AUSTRALIAN SEA-HORSE DISGUISED AS SEAWEED.

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

3^9

sargasso-weed, mat together so as to form
perfect floating meadows, and often even
impede the navigation of vessels. The weed
is pale yellow in hue, and is inhabited by
vast numbers of small marine
animals — crabs, prawns, and
the like—all of which are pro¬
tectively coloured exactly like
the weed on which they live.

I have often had a bucket of
sargasso-weed fished up for me
by the sailors when crossing
this sea, and have amused my¬
self by trying to distinguish the
numerous little beasts among
the almost similar berry-like
knobs of the sargasso in which
they lurked.

In the case of the Australian sea-horse
and of the crabs and fish which inhabit the
sargasso-weed, however, the imitation is quite
general. My next example will be of a more
specialized kind. No. 4 represents a butter¬
fly of a species peculiar to the Malay Archi¬
pelago, and known as a Kallima. That is
how it looks while it flies about coquetting in
the open sunshine, displaying its brilliant
hues, and seeking to attract the attention of
its observant mate. Under such circum¬
stances, it is a beautiful creature: its wings
are dark brown at the tip, and crossed by a
bright yellow band ; the under wing being
blue, with shot hues running through it. A
very gallant gentleman indeed the male
Kallima appears when thus flaunting his
beauty in the tropical sun before the eyes of
the ladies of his species.

But let some enemy threaten, some bird
pounce down upon him, and the Kallima
butterfly has an easy refuge. He need
but settle down quietly on
a neighbouring bough, and
hi, presto! all at once he
seems to have put on the
cap of invisibility. If you
are chasing one of these
butterflies, and he alights
on a tree, you imagine at
first that he has disappeared
entirely. And so he has,
though only from your
vision. At rest, he is indis¬
co verable. No. 5, if you
look close, contains the
explanation of this “mys¬
terious disappearance of a
gentleman.” But you must
look close if you want to
find him out in his ex- ^

cellent disguise. The branch, you see, has
four leaves on it: well, the uppermost left-
hand leaf is our vanishing butterfly. The
undersides of his wings are coloured and lined
so as exactly to imitate the
leaves of his favourite bush, on
which he usually settles. Mid¬
rib and veins are all carefully
imitated: while the actual body
and legs of the insect become
quite unobtrusive. Indeed, in
real life, the imitation is even
more perfect, owing to the
addition of colour, than it seems
in the sketch, for here you have
Mr. Knock’s sharp eyes—and
I know none sharper—to pick
out the creature for you, apart
from all the leaves on the tree it inhabits ;
whereas, in nature, you would have to hunt
it up for yourself among a whole bushful of
foliage, all exactly like it.

Residents in London can easily try for
themselves this interesting game of hide-and-
seek with a vanishing butterfly: for in the
vestibule of the Natural History Museum at
South Kensington there is a case of animals
intended to illustrate protective resem¬
blances ; and conspicuous in the case is
a large group of these very butterflies, some
of them almost impossible to detect among
the leaves around them. It is noticeable,
too, that similar types of double colouring—
for display and for protection—are common
in nature. The upper side of the wings is
visible only when they are unfolded, and the
insect is consciously showing off his charms
in the sunshine to his mates : he then desires
to look as handsome, as well-dressed, and as
conspicuous as possible. But the under side
is shown when he rests with
folded wings on a twig ;
and his obvious cue is then
to escape observation. In
the one case, he is the
gallant at large; in the other
case, the fugitive in hiding.

Similar instances of pro¬
tective resemblance, pro¬
duced no doubt by natural
selection, are now well
known in many different
classes of animals. The
most familiar are the leaf-
insects of Ceylon and Java
—wonderful green creatures
with ribs and veins like
those of leaves, so decep¬
tively arranged that, as Mr.

4.—KALLIMA BUTTERFLY,
DISPLAYING ITSELF WHILE FLYING.

BUTTERFLY.

390

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Alfred Russel Wallace says, “ not one person
in ten can see them when resting on the
food-plant close beneath their eyes.” Others
of the class imitate bits of stick, with little
knots and branches, so that one can only
recognise them as alive when one touches
them. A stick-insect brought to Mr.
Wallace in Borneo so exactly mimicked
a piece of stick, covered with green
mosses and liverworts, that it fairly
took in even that lynx-eyed naturalist. That
these protective devices do really benefit the
animals which exhibit them there can be no
doubt at all: for Mr. Belt saw a locust in
Nicaragua got up as a leaf, and absolutely
overrun by foraging ants, hungry carnivores
which devour every insect they come across
like a ravening army : yet
they never even discovered
that the apparent leaf they
were walking over was itself
a store of good ant-meat.

The locust, on the other
hand, fully recognised the
nature of his immunity from
attack, and understood that
if he moved a single limb he
would betray himself: for he
allowed Mr. Belt to pick
him up in his hand, examine
him closely, and replace him
among the ants, without
making an effort to escape
or a movement to reveal his
true nature. This trick of
“shamming dead,” as it is
called, is common among
beetles and many other
insects.

In most of the cases known to us, such
imitations are due to the need for protection
alone. Sometimes, however, the tables are
turned : animals which prey upon others
deceive their prey by posing as something
quite harmless and even attractive. Thus
the lizards of the desert are usually sand-
coloured, so that they may creep up unob¬
served upon the insects they devour ; while
in the arctic snows, all the beasts and birds
alike are snow-white, because there a black
or red animal would be seen and avoided at
once by all its possible victims. One of the
strangest instances I know of imitation in a
hunting creature occurs in Java. There is a
type of creature allied to the grasshoppers
and known as the Mantis, many species of
which in various countries are specialized
into leaf-insects : they are voracious creatures,
with long arm-like fore-limbs, which lie in

wait for and devour many smaller insects.
One such Mantis in Java is coloured pink,
and resembles when at rest a pink orchid.
The butterflies on which it feeds mistake it
for a flower, alight on what seem its petals in
search of honey, and are instantly seized by
the ruthless hand-like claws and devoured
without mercy. As Mr. Wallace pithily puts
the case, “ It is a living trap, and forms its
own bait.”

Examples like this lead one on to the still
more remarkable group of facts known as
mimicry. It might almost be called imper¬
sonation. A certain number of animals
belonging to the most different families have
the odd peculiarity of resembling, or as it is
oftener called “ mimicking,” sundry other
animals to which they are
not really in the least degree
related. As before, I will
begin with a single good
typical example of such
mimicry, and when we have
thoroughly comprehended its
nature and meaning, will
pass on to the principles
which govern the practice
in all similar cases.

No. 6 shows us, below, a
specimen of the common
English hornet. Now, every¬
body knows that the hornet
is a large red and brown and
yellow wasp, very active and
irritable, with a nasty, aggres¬
sive temper, and an unpleas¬
ant way of stinging on the
slightest provocation, or
none at all for that matter.
Furthermore, everybody who has once
been stung by a hornet—as I have been
not infrequently in the cause of science—
is keenly aware that a hornet’s sting bears
to an ordinary wasp’s the same relation as
scourging with scorpions bears to scourging
with rods. On this account, hornets are
generally let severely alone by birds and
other insect-eating creatures. It must clearly
be an advantage to the wasps and hornets
that they possess a sting: and its chief point
is just that—it protects them from attack by
possible enemies.

Again, almost all specially-protected crea¬
tures, as I mentioned once before in the case
of the nasty-tasted and inedible caterpillars, are
very brilliantly and conspicuously coloured.
The contrasted bands of black and yellow in
the common wasp, which render him so easily
recognisable at sight, are a familiar instance.

6.—LOWER FIGURE, THE COMMON
HORNET: UPPER MGURE, A MOTH WHICH
PERSONATES IT.

IN NATURE’S WORKSHOP.

39i

Such vivid bands or bright tints have been
well described by Mr. Alfred Russel Wallace
as “ warning colours/’ The moment we see
a bright black-and-yellow-belted insect alight
with a buzz on the fruit at dessert, we say at
once to the little ones, “ There’s a wasp !
Don’t touch him ! ” This almost instinctive
fear which the mere sight of the venomous
insect inspires in onlookers is all to the good
for him : it serves his end by preventing us
from handling or crushing him. Still more
do the lower animals give such insects a
wide berth : a very young and inexperienced
P u PPy> ^ is true, will sometimes make an
imprudent snap at a passing wasp; but the
piteous way he licks his tongue afterwards,
and the dejected attitudes by means of which
he tells us that he is very sorry for himself,
show before long that the wasp, though van¬
quished, has left his mark behind him. That
P u PPy, you may be sure, will never try to
snap at another bright yellow-banded insect
as long as he lives : when one buzzes about
him, he will put his tail between his legs like
a wise dog, and retire incontinently into safer
quarters.

It is now well known that whenever we
find animals belonging to usually sober
families, but tricked out in gaudy red or
orange or yellow, they are almost invariably
protected in one way or another—are either
venomous, or stinging, or nasty to the taste,
or else possess, like the striking black-and-
white-banded skunk, the power of ejecting
an offensive and irritating odour. A famous
instance of this conjunction of inedibility and
brilliancy is “ Belt’s frog.” In Nicaragua, that
close observer Mr. Belt found a small kind of
frog, gorgeously arrayed in crimson and blue,
and swelling about like King Solomon in all
his glory. Frogs of this dazzling sort were
extremely abundant in Nicaraguan woods,
and never made the slightest attempt at
concealment. Now, it is the common habit
of land frogs, all the world over, to be
protectively coloured with brown or green,
according as they haunt most the ground or
the foliage of trees. The common little tree-
frogs so abundant in most warm climates, for
example—every visitor to the Riviera must
know them well—are either a brilliant grass-
green, to imitate the foliage to whose under¬
side they cling by their sucker-padded
feet, or else are mottled with grey and
white and brown, to mimic bark, dead leaves,
and lichen-covered branches. So Mr. Belt
felt convinced that his Nicaraguan frog,
which behaved so differently from the rest
of its kind—which was so brilliantly dressed

and never tried to hide itself—must be
venomous or inedible. He tried the question
by giving a few frogs to his fowls and ducks :
the wary birds looked at them suspiciously,
put their heads on one side, and refused to
touch them. At last, by throwing a single
frog down unobtrusively among pieces of
meat for which the ducks were scrambling,
he managed to induce a young and inex¬
perienced duck to pick up the creature.
“ Instead of swallowing it, however, the duck
instantly threw it out of its mouth, and went
about jerking its head as if trying to get rid
of some unpleasant taste.” I have myself
experimented in the same way on some
brilliantly-coloured slugs, which cover rocks
in the open, and can add my personal
testimony to that of Mr. Belt’s witness, the
incautious duckling.

But I am wandering from the question.
Let us return to our pictures. The upper
insect in No. 6 represents, not a hornet or
relative of the hornets, but a moth, decep¬
tively coloured so as to mimic and suggest
the hornet kind. Bees and wasps, being
species that enjoy immunity from attack, are
naturally very much imitated by other insects.
The whole family to which this imitation
hornet belongs, indeed—that of the clear-
wing moths—seems to have laid itself out
on purpose to personate the wasps and
bumble-bees, for almost every species is an
imitator of some particular species of sting¬
ing insect. Of course the moths are them¬
selves quite harmless soft things : but they
look like wasps or hornets, and that is
enough to protect them. They produce their
effect in a very odd manner. Most moths,
as we know, have feathery wings, covered
with a fine powder of dust-like scales; but
the clear-wings have got rid of the scales, so
as to resemble wasps and bees with their
membranous wings; and it is this peculiarity
in their structure which gives the common
English name to the family. Not only, how¬
ever, are the wings transparent, but the
bodies also are shaped much like those of
wasps and hornets, and are conspicuously
banded with red and yellow. The antenn?e,
too, are made as wasp-like as possible. The
clear-wings fly about rapidly in the open sun¬
shine, and their flight resembles that of
wasps and bumble-bees, according to the
model selected for imitation by each species.
Indeed, the resemblance is much greater
in real life than in Mr. Enock’s sketch,
because the colour is so deceptively similar.
No ordinary person who saw a hornet clear-
wing would dare to put his hand upon it,

39 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

This queer
the clever

even if told it was harmless:
naturalists themselves look twice
before they venture incautiously
to finger a doubtful specimen.

The hornet clear-wing is a great
frequenter of poplar trees, in the
wood of which the larva burrows;
and in No. 7, Mr. Enock has
shown us the same two insects
again, at rest on the bark of a
branch of this favourite food-tree.

As before, the hornet is still below,
and the moth above; but in this
instance, even without the aid of
colour, the deceptive resemblance
becomes still more conspicuous.

If, while the moth is thus sitting
in the sunshine on a trunk of
poplar, you try to touch its body,
it will perform one of those curious
“ terrifying ” evolutions which
I have already described in so 2
many insects. It will curve its
back, and dig once or twice into
the bark with its tail, as if it
had a sting and meant to use it.
habit puts a finishing touch to
deception ; and the consequence is, that the
hornet clear-wing is seldom molested by birds
or other inquisitive strangers. The imitation
pays : it secures the little mimic from un¬
desirable intruders.

Still stranger and more immoral is the
gross case of impersonation for purposes of
burglary, illustrated in No. 8. Here we
have, below, a great burly bustling bumble¬
bee, and, above, a particular fly, named Volu-
cella, which dresses itself up to imitate the
bee in indistinguishable hairs and colours.
And it does so for a very
treacherous object. The grubs
of the fly are parasitic on the
grubs of the bumble-bee and
wasp: and the female Volucella
is thus enabled to enter the
nests of bumble-bees, and lay
her eggs among those of the
real owners, whose larvae the
fly larvae will finally devour.

It is true that doubts have
lately been cast upon this fact,
because the fly which imitates
the bee has been seen to enter
the nests of wasps : but I do
not attach much importance
to this objection, which needs
even now to be more widely
demonstrated. At any rate,
these facts remain, that various

7. —HORNET AND HORNET
CLEAR-WING MOTH, ON
A BRANCH TOGETHER.

curious and

8 .—LOWER FIGURE, BUMBLE-BEE
UTTER FIGURE, FLY WHICH
IMITATES IT.

kinds of Volucella mimic various
kinds of bumble-bee, and that the
young of one devour the young
of the other. For my part, I say
confidently, a clear case of loiter¬
ing under disguise, with intent to
commit a burglary.

The case of the bumble-bee and
the Volucella fly is an excellent
example also of the extent to
which alone mimicry is possible.

I said above that animals of quite
different families mimicked one
another: and you can see for
yourselves here just how far the
imitation goes, and where it fails.
For the bees have two pairs of
wings each, folded one slightly
under the other; but the whole
group of flies has practically only
one pair, the second or hinder
pair having dwindled away to a
couple of slender little “poisers,”
or “ balancers,” which you can see
sticking out from the side of the
upper figure in No. 8. Now, the fly couldn’t
easily re-develop these stunted and almost
abortive wings to the primitive size, as one sees
them in the bumble-bee; so what did it
do ? Made the one pair of front wings look
like two pair, by -means of a notch half-way
down the side, as you may see by comparing
the two figures. Tis ever thus. The disguise
is always external only; it affects nothing
but outer appearances, leaving the internal
organs and underlying structure of the beast
unaltered. So, when a savage dresses up in
the skin of a wild animal, in order to
approach others of the same kind without
being noticed, his disguise is external only:

peel off the skin, and in essen¬
tials, beneath, he is human. It
is the same with mimicry.
Visible parts undergo modifica¬
tion : invisible parts are never
altered. A legend of the stage
tells us of a thoroughly con¬
scientious actor who blacked
himself all over to play Othello;
nature is content with black¬
ing the face and hands like
the ordinary unconscientious
player.

In No. 9 you see the same
two insects, the bumble-bee
and the Volucella fly, feeding
side by side on a head of
Dutch clover. (You remember
its trick of tucking away the

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

393

fertilized blossoms.) Both are sucking honey;
and it takes a keen eye to distinguish them.
But lest family quarrels arise over the
question, I will say that the bee is to the
left, the fly to the right. These are only a
few stray examples out of the numerous
insects which imitate bees, wasps, and other
stinging species. Often enough, indeed, I
have seen ladies scream at the approach of a
perfectly harmless fly, because he came to
them in wasp’s clothing. The drone-flies,
which imitate bees, do it so well that even
spiders are taken in, and treat them with'
caution as if they had stings.

Mimicry is not wholly con¬
fined to the smaller animals.

It occurs, though sparingly,
higher up in the scale of being.

There are several venomous
snakes, for example, in tropical
America, conspicuously
arrayed in alternate bands of
red and black, or red, black,
and yellow, which are clearly
warning colours. They mean,
in effect, “ Let me alone, or
I sting you.” Now, in the
same region, three genera of
unarmed and harmless snakes
mimic and personate the
various species of venomous
banded snakes, so that it is
often impossible to distinguish
one from the other except by
killing them. Naturally, snake¬
eating birds and mammals
follow in such cases the familiar principle of
the British jury, and “give them the benefit
of the doubt.” A few defenceless birds
likewise imitate pugnacious and powerful
ones, and so secure immunity from the
attacks of enemies.

How did these mimicking species arise ? It
was that wonderful student of animal life, Mr.
H. W. Bates—the Naturalist on the Amazons
—who first solved this knotty problem.

He showed that, if a helpless or palatable
species of butterfly (to take a particular
concrete example) happened even remotely
to resemble an uneatable one, it would derive
some slight advantage from the resemblance,
because birds and other enemies would often
be uncertain, and therefore afraid to attack
it. As the birds or other enemies grew
sharper, by dint of practice, the edible
individuals which happened to be least like
the nasty species would get detected and
eaten ; but those which happened to be most
like it would be spared, and would breed

Vol. xvii.—50.

together, thus handing on their peculiarities
to their offspring. Among their descendants,
again, those which most resembled the pro¬
tected kind would escape, while those which
least resembled it would be spotted and
devoured. In this way the imitation would
at last become almost perfect, at least
so far as externals were concerned, until the
enemies were no longer able to distinguish
the mimic from the original. Many cases
thus present, in Mr. Bates’s own words, “a
palpably intentional likeness that is quite
staggering.” Since Mr. Bates wrote his
famous paper on the subject
endless new instances have
been accumulated, and we
now know of hundreds of
mimicking species, both
among insects and other
animals, the whole world over.

Mr. Alfred Russel Wallace,
who has also paid great atten¬
tion to this subject, has further
pointed out that true cases of
mimicry can be said to occur
only where five distinct condi¬
tions are all fulfilled. To
begin with, the imitator and
the original protected species
must live in the same district;
for, if not, the enemies would
not know and avoid the pro¬
tected species: how, therefore,
could they mistake the mas¬
querader for it? Again, the
imitators are known to be
always more defenceless than the creature they
imitate : harmless themselves, they pretend to
belong to a dangerous or inedible kind. There
is some sense in an antelope dressing up as a
tiger, but none at all in a tiger dressing up as
a hyena. Once more, the imitating species
is always less numerous in individuals than
the kind it personates : only rather common
and well-known venomous types are ever
mimicked—types that everybody knows and
avoids—and the mimickers must be relatively
uncommon, or else their enemies will soon
discover the fraud. It is also noticeable that
the mimics always differ conspicuously from
their own allies : they have to dress the part,
a part for which nature did not originally fit
them. Finally, the imitation never goes one
mite beyond the merest externals : it is not
a real analogy, but a disguise and a fancy
dress—a superficial outer seeming.

Actual mimicry of another species, such
as we see in these special cases, is the
furthest pitch of which protective rescm-

9.— THE REAL BEE AND THE FALSE
ONE ; ON A HEAD OF DUTCH CLOVER I
WHICH IS WHICH?

394

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

blance is ever capable. Between that and
the mere general resemblance of arctic foxes,
arctic hares, arctic ptarmigan, arctic willow-
grouse, and so forth, to the snows in whose
midst they live, we get every possible variety
of gradation. The general principle involved
appears to be this. Where the surroundings
are very uniform, as among the ice and snow
of the po’ar regions, the protected animals
are all uniformly coloured—in this case with
snow - white fur or feathers. Where the
prevalent hue changes, as in sub - arctic
lands, the animals may change too, being
brown or grey or russet in summer, and
white in winter. Where the ordinary tint
is slightly varied, as in the desert, the
animals tend to be sand - coloured or
speckled. The same rule holds good of
the sea sands. Excellent examples of this
stage are to be seen in the soles and other
flat-fish, which imitate on their exposed or
upper side the colour of the bottom on which
they habitually lie. Everybody who has
watched the behaviour of soles in an
aquarium must have observed not only that
they are hard to distinguish, when at rest,
from the sand on which they repose, but also
that, in order to increase the resemblance
and conceal from foes the outline of their
shape, they have a canny way of flipping a
little loose sand with a wave of their fins
over the edge of the body every time
they settle down again after a short
swim. Soles frequent sand, and are therefore
of a brownish sandy tone of hue; dabs
or flounders, which lurk in
mud, are more uniformly
mud-coloured; plaice,
which affect pebbly banks,
have a variegated pattern,
interspersed wfith red
spots, to imitate coloured
pebbles ; and turbot,
which belong to somewhat
greyer tracts, are vaguely
grey and spotty, wfith raised
knobs scattered over the
surface to make them look
like the rough ground about
them. All, however, are
white on the under side ;
because, when they swim,
the wfiite makes it more
difficult for an enemy below
them to recognise them
against the general shim¬
mering glare on the surface
of the water, as you look
up at it from the bottom.

Every swimmer must have noticed as he
dives how dazzling white this surface seems
when observed from below.

In woods, forests, tangled brake, jungle,
copses, hedgerows, thickets, and so forth,
the surroundings are much more varied, and
the protective resemblances therefore become
somewhat more complex. A simple case of
this more special kind is that of the great
cats, whose colours differ exactly in accord¬
ance with their lairs. The lion, a desert
beast, is simply sand-coloured ; the tiger, a
jungle beast, frequenting tracts overgrown
with bamboos and other big yellow reed-like
grasses, has up-and-down stripes, which
render him difficult to perceive as he creeps
upon his prey among the up-and-down lights
and shadows of the pale straw-coloured dead
grasses in his favourite ravines; while the
tree-cats, such as jaguars, ocelots, and so
forth, are spotted or dappled, because the
spots make them more difficult to recognise
among the round lights and shadows in their
native forests. Spotted deer and antelopes
also belong to forest regions ; while almost
all of those with vertical stripes are constant
frequenters of deep grasslands.

Smaller creatures go yet a step further :
they imitate not merely the general effect,
but particular objects in their surroundings,
such as leaves, sticks, bits of moss, and
lichens. Certain greyish moths, for example,
pretend to be bird-droppings ; while many
spiders fold themselves up in the angle
between a leaf and the stem, and masquerade
as buds, on the hunt for
insects. A group of plant-
bugs cover themselves all
over with thin threads of
white wax, which they
secrete themselves; and
they are then mistaken for
fragments of wool, rubbed
off and left behind on the
bark of the tree by some
passing animal. Caterpillars
and grubs are particularly
given to this class of decep¬
tion : and, considering how
ruthlessly they are perse¬
cuted by birds, the sternest
moralist can hardly blame
them. No. io represents
one such typical specimen :
the ingenious larva of the
swallow-tail moth, pretend¬
ing for all he is worth that
he is a twig of ivy. The
branch to the right is the

MOTII, PRETENDING TO BE A TWIG OF IVY.

IN A A TURK’S WORKSHOP.

395

real twig : observe its buds
and the scars at the bases of
the fallen leaf-stalks. Then
look at the twig to the left,
which is really the caterpillar,
with form and colour cun¬
ningly devised to imitate
exactly the true twig beside
it. He holds on by his hind
legs, and sticks his body out
from the stem, in a rigid
attitude, at the appropriate
angle; a knob on his side
mimics the scars of the fallen
leaves, while the turn of his
head and neck exactly repro¬
duces the terminal bud on
the real ivy-branch. This
admirable insect-actor, Mr.

Enock tells me, has often
imposed even on the artist
who here paints his portrait.

A slightly different speci¬
men of the same class of
deception is given in No. u, which is the
likeness of the caterpillar who turns into
the thorn-moth. Only a very keen eye can
detect a well-disguised grub like this on a
knotty branch of its native food-plant.

No. 12 is a common example of the group
of stick-insects, allies of the grasshoppers,
crickets, and locusts, a tribe among which
the resemblance to leaves and twigs is
carried further than
in any other instance.

This particular stick-
insect does not look very
much disguised in the
sketch, it is true; but
then, you must remember
that colour counts for
half the battle in all these
cases; and I have not
yet ventured to ask for
coloured illustrations. I
know the stick - insects
well, however, in many
parts of the world — I
was “ raised ” on them in
Canada—and I know that
they are often most diffi¬
cult of detection. Sher¬
lock Holmes himself
would sometimes find
them very hard cases. It
has happened to me more
than once to stand gazing
for some minutes into a

bush in search of them,
and find none: suddenly, a
slight movement somewhere
would arrest my attention:
and then, all at once, the
twig at which I had been
gazing with rapt attention
would get up and walk away
in the most leisurely and
lordly fashion. Stick-insects
are slow and inactive crea¬
tures : they sleep by day, and
wander forth by night to feed
on leaves, for, like Mr. Ber¬
nard Shaw, they are strict
vegetarians.

Only those who have
looked close into tropical
jungles or into English hedge¬
rows, with long and careful
scrutiny, can realize the large
part which such disguises play
in the balanced and compli¬
cated scheme of nature. Un¬
observant people are apt to disbelieve in
them. For, naturally, unobservant people see
only the obvious: most of the birds and
animals they know are just the protected
minority which have bright warning colours,
or are courageous enough and strong enough
to dare to be conspicuous. But the world
about us teems with unobtrusive, skulking life :
and this skulking life, in many ways the most
curious and interesting of
all, is unknown save to
the naturalist. I hope
I may have succeeded
here in unmasking the
disguises of some few
among these countless
n at ural masqueraders,
and that a proportion
of my readers at least
may be led by my re¬
marks to look a little
more closely into that
glorious and profoundly
absorbing panorama
which nature unfolds,
free of charge, before
our eyes every morning.
Barnum’s show, indeed !
Why, nature can give
Mr. Barnum, his heirs,
executors, and assignees,
ninety - nine points in
every game, and “ beat
him, easy ” !

II.—CATERPILLAR OF THE THORN MOTH,
PRETENDING TO BE A TWIG OF
HAWTHORN.

12 .—COMMON STICK-INSECT, LOST AMONG THE
THICKET OF TWIGS WHICH HE IMITATES.

Illustrated Interviews.
LXIII. — M. VASILI VERESTCHAGIN.
By Arthur Mee.

ERESTCHiYGIN and war are
diametrical opposites — irre¬
concilable antagonisms. No¬
body who knows him can
think of M. Verestchagin as
a warrior. Judging from his
countenance, you might mistake him for
a professor, deeply versed in science, or
perhaps theology, and after five minutes’
conversation with him you might be par¬
doned for supposing
that he is the Presi¬
dent of the Peace
Society. Everything
about him is anti¬
military — his plea¬
sant face, his homely
manner, his friendly
disposition towards
all men, his perfect
frankness, his devo¬
tion to the most
peaceful of all the
arts. Yet but for war
M. Verestchagin
might have been an
unknown painter in
Moscow, painting the
portraits of Russian
noblemen, and paint¬
ing them well, but he
could hardly have
made the reputation
he now enjoys as the
greatest military
painter of the nine¬
teenth century.

Nobody will object
to that designation
more strongly than
M. Verestchagin
himself, but of that
more anon.

The study of biography, in all countries
and in all ages, suggests an interesting reflec¬
tion. How many great careers might have
been lost to the world, or have been diverted
into utterly different channels, if children
had always obeyed their parents in all
things ! Luther would never have been a
preacher, Handel would never have been
a composer, and Verestchagin would never
have been a painter. Instead, he might
have been a victorious general in the army

of the Czar. But young Verestchagin was
something of a diplomatist even at fourteen,
and he effected a compromise between his
own inclinations and the desire of his
parents by entering the naval school and
studying painting at the same time. The
rule that you cannot do two things at once
and do both well did not hold good in his
case, for he left the naval school as its head
scholar, first among sixty boys, and he had
not long to wait for
his silver medal at
the Academy of Fine
Arts. Had he re¬
mained in the school
and become a naval
marine officer, as his
parents desired, his
name would no
doubt have shone
brilliantly on the
pages of Russian
naval history, but
that would have been
poor compensation
for the loss by the
world of some of its
greatest paintings.

The silver medal
was a source of great
encouragement to the
young artist, who
determined from that
time to devote him¬
self to the art he
loved. His father
was a rich land-
owner, who had never
dreamed that his son
would be a mere
painter, and his
mother thought him
mad “ to give up such
a grand career to paint pictures ! ” But the
desire to become a great painter was too
deep-rooted in the lad to be eradicated by
scoffing, even when the scoffs came from his
own father and mother, and Vasili Verest¬
chagin worked with his pencil and brush
for sixteen hours a day. He had begun his
life-work, and a few years later, after travelling,
pencil in hand, in the Caucasus, Verestchagin
found himself in Paris.

The artist still delights to recall these early

M. VASILI VERESTCHAGIN (PRESENT DAY).
From a Photo, by E. Biebcr, Hamburg.

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

397

days. “ Who sent you to me ? ”
asked Gerome, when Verest-
chagin applied for admission
to the Beaux Arts. “ Your
paintings,” replied the appli¬
cant, and no more questions
were asked. Verestchagin
showed his pluck the first day
by breaking through the “ fag¬
ging ” traditions of the school.

It was the joy of the students
to humiliate a “new man,”
and Verestchagin was not at
first exempted from the rule.

But instead of submitting he
played carelessly with a pocket
revolver when the first degrad¬
ing order was given, and the
students ordered him about no
more. Verestchagin returned
home after three years in Paris,
and it was then that he saw
war for the first time. It was
in 1867, when the Russians
sent an army into Central Asia to punish the
marauding Turcomans.

“ I went with General Kauffmann, as an
artist,” M. Verestchagin told me, “ but I was
obliged to take part, and I tasted the horrors
of war for the first time. It was at Samar-
cand, a town cap¬
tured by our army,
you remember, in
1868. I was one
of five hundred
imprisoned within
the walls of the
city, and outside
was a wild army
of twenty thousand
barbarians. To
surrender would
have been to sign
our own sentence
of death, and we
kept them out for
eight days and
nights. Then, at
last, the fierce,
unequal struggle
came to an end.

The savage horde,
setting fire to the
great gate, rushed
into the town
across the flames.

I can never forget
the ferocious heads
of these savages,

the red light on the bayonets
of our soldiers, and the mono¬
tonous orders of our officers
‘ for the firing of our only gun.
How they yelled and fought
amid the flames ! But General
Kauffmann fortunately came
up in time, and the fortress
was delivered.”

In thus modestly telling the
story of this gallant exploit,
M. Verestchagin forgot to
mention that he spent most of
those eight days and nights on
the battlemented walls, with a
revolver in each hand, and
that for his part in the defence
of Samarcand he received the
Cross of St. George, the
highest military decoration
Russia can bestow.

I asked M. Verestchagin
what were his first impres¬
sions of war, and his answer
throws an unpleasant light on the matter-of-
fact way in which the killing of men goes on.

“The business side of war is, from the
soldier’s point of view, not so horrible as you
may imagine. The horror of it breaks upon
you gradually. First one man falls wounded,
then another falls
dead, and you have
not time to reflect.

I was horrified to
see comrades fall
about me, but no
sickening feeling
came over me as I
struck the enemy,
though I killed
many men. You
know what killing
bears and tigers is
like—war is just
like that. It is
for your country,
and you think of
that; and you re¬
member that you
will be rewarded
for your valour.
Certainly, there is
excitement, but
not more so, I
think, than in
common sport. I
have never known
a soldier who, after
killing another

M. VERESTCHAGIN (AGE 12 YEARS).
From a Photo.

M. VERESTCHAGIN AS A NAVAL STUDENT.
From a Photo.

39S

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

has painted, probably less than half have
anything to do with battles. Some of his
best work, indeed, are paintings of rivers,
mountains, and other peaceful scenes, such
as his pictures of India and the Holy Land.
But it is by his military pictures, never¬
theless, that M. Verestchagin has made his
European reputation, though he observed,
when I touched on the point :—

“ I am not a military painter at all. I
paint war scenes because they are very
interesting. War is the loss of all human
sense; under its influence men become
animals entirely. The artist looks always
for passion, and passion is seen at its height

hospital, where men with broken limbs lie in
hundreds or thousands; and while gentle
women are tenderly caring for them, assuag¬
ing their agony, and lessening, as much as
they can, their almost unbearable pain, men
are falling like rain not far away. What
nonsense ! How stupid to wound a man to
heal his wound again ! The savages are the
only logical warriors I know. They kill their
enemies and eat them.”

There is no need to attempt here a critique
of M. Verestchagin’s work. His pictures are
known wherever art and artists are, and
where they are known they are admired.
It may perhaps be doubted if any

man, has asked himself, ‘ What have I
done ? 1 The average soldier, on the other
hand, would, certainly think himself more
worthy of reward if he killed ten men than
if he killed two.”

Though most of us know M. Verestchagin
as a painter of pitilessly-realistic war pictures,
it is quite a mistake, as he was careful to
point out to me, to imagine that he has
painted nothing else but military scenes.
His first great picture shown in London was
“The Opium-Eaters,” which was an instant
success ; and of the hundreds of pictures he

on the battlefield. That is why war attracts
me, as it must always attract artists, and
authors too. Every hour war brings some¬
thing new, something never seen before,
something outside the range of ordinary
human life ; it is the reversal of Christianity ;
and for the artist, the author, and the
philosopher, it must always have a supreme
interest. But what a foolish game it is!
Here, men are being shot down like cattle;
there, sisters of mercy are picking them up
and trying to heal their wounds. A man
no sooner falls than he is taken into the

From the Picture by]

THE EXECUTION OF THE NIHILISTS WHO MURDERED THE LATE CZAR.

[ Verestchagin.

ILL USTRA TED INTER VIE WS.

399

other artist has achieved such distinc¬
tion in so many paths. The pictures
which have come from his studios during
forty years of active work—they number
hundreds—are as varied in scene and treat¬
ment as they are in size, but one thing may
be said of them all they come “ fresh from
Nature.” There is no theatrical veil over
them. Whether his subject be one of
peace or one of war—whether it be the
beautiful, placid conception of the Holy
Family; the woful, despairing retreat of the
Grand Army from Moscow; the field of death ;
or the peoples, and scenes, and festivals of
the Eastern world —the great fact which stands

hot storm of shot fell upon them. But—
horror upon horror !—the torpedo would not
go off! The shot had cut the fuse. Just
then Verestchagin felt a sickening sensation,
and putting his hand to the place where
something had struck him, he found a hole
big enough to admit three lingers. He was
in danger three months, but he rose from his
bed and went through the campaign, witness¬
ing the rush on Constantinople which he has
put so magnificently on canvas.

And Verestchagin is as original as he is
human. For centuries no artist had pene¬
trated the heart of Asia. The wild life of
that vast continent was unknown in pictorial

From the Picture» by\

ALL gUIET AT SHllMvA.”—THE KATE OF A SENTRY.

f Verestcliuyin.

out clearly in Verestchagin’s pictures is their
vivid, human reality. He is, above ail, a
great human painter. When, as a student
in Paris, Gerome sent him to the antique,
Verestchagin would slip away to Nature.
When set to work on Athenian marbles, his
pencil would refuse to act, and he would
turn to flesh and blood for his models as
naturally as the river turns to the sea. When,
in the Russo - Turkish War, he wanted to
study the effect of a gunboat in the air, he
begged to be allowed to accompany the
sailors who were to sink a Turkish gunboat
on the Danube. It was a perilous task, in
which the men carried their lives in their
hands, and the officer in command hesitated.

“ Russia has hundreds of officers like me,
but not two painters like you,” he said.

But Verestchagin insisted, and went.
Quietly they stole up to the Turkish craft,
but not too quietly for the eyes and ears of
the Turkish sentries to discover them. As
they thrust the torpedo under the bows, a

art. Verestchagin began his work there.
He lifted the veil which no other hand had
raised, and painted the faces, the landscapes,
the remnants of a decaying civilization,
which had never been painted before. How
they laughed like children -these types of a
passing world—when they saw themselves on
canvas ! How they cried, too, and ran away
fear-stricken that the stranger had something
to do with the world to come ! India, also,
with every element of the picturesque, with
human types, and architecture and colour
unmatched, perhaps, in the world, Verest¬
chagin discovered for art. He saw the
dependency at its best and at its worst, and
his “pictorial poem” of Northern India
ranks amongst the noblest of his works.

But his war pictures—what can compare
with these ? What, less than actual war, can
fill us with such sickening horror ? That
pyramid of human skulls raised up in the
desert dedicated to “all conquerors, past,
present, and to come ” ! Those prisoners of

400

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

t Verestchagin.

“ PRISONERS OF THE INDIAN MUTINY BLOWN FROM GUNS.

the Indian Mutiny, their faces writhed with
unutterable pain, blown by British soldiers
from British guns ! Those dying men who
have spilt their blood for their country’s weal,
with their last glance to heaven darkened by
hungry vultures hovering overhead, waiting
for a meal! And what can surpass, in tragic
despair, his picture of Napoleon in the
peasant’s hut ?—“ for a whole day he sits in a
peasant’s hut, thinking, thinking, but never
speaking a word to the expectant marshals
who await his orders.” Verestchagin has
painted Napoleon as the Emperor has never
been painted before.

“ I have painted him as a man, ’ he told
me. “ He is Napoleon still, but he is also a
man, not half God as he is generally repre¬
sented to be. I have not painted him like a
king in his carriage, wearing a smart uniform.
I have seen the Emperor painted in a smart
pelisse of silk and fur, with stylish openings,
and depicted thus on his Russian campaign.
But it is absurd: he would have been frozen
to the lungs. The fact is that Napoleon
wore a long, plain pelisse and a Samoyede
hat, and he did not ride, but walked with his
men because the army grumbled at the com¬
fort of his carriage. There are fifteen pictures
in the Napoleon series, which took me eight
years to paint. I began them in Paris, but

could not get on with them there. I must
have the Russian snows about me, the
Russian winter. So I packed up my luggage
and went home to Moscow, where, in my own
house, which stands on a hill, I finished the
work amid snows such as are never seen in
England, but which bathe Moscow in a
sheet of white to-day as they did in 1812.”

iC Your intimate knowledge of Russia, and
especially of Moscow, must have been of
great assistance to you in painting these
pictures ? ”

“ Quite so ; and it may interest you to
know that I spent a whole year in reading
up the history of the time in Paris, and read
every book on the subject that I could get
hold of. I have taken no notice of the
official history of the war. I know too much
about official history to think it of much
value. I know that if official history says
2,000 were killed, the truth is that the
number was nearer 5°°- ^ was exceedingly

fortunate with the picture representing the
burning of Moscow. Whilst I was engaged
upon it an awful fire broke out at Brest-
Litopsk. I packed up my canvas and other
materials and hurried off to the burning city,
of which I obtained a fine view. It was a
terrible spectacle—just another such a fire
as Moscow must have made — and I had no

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

401

difficulty in working the effects into my
Moscow picture.”

What is the secret of Verestchagin’s success
as a painter? If one were asked to answer
such a question in one short phrase, one
could not help saying : “ His love of Truth.”
As the true author holds the mirror up to
Nature, so, says' Verestchagin, the true artist
will paint the real and not the artificial. He
has rarely painted anything that he has not
seen, and, having seen it, he has painted it
exactly as it is. All thoughts of convention¬
alism are hushed in his studio.

“ What will
they say if you
paint Napoleon
like that ? ”

“I have no¬
thing to do with
what they say : I
paint Napoleon
as he was.”

And in that
spirit of fidelity
to truth Verest¬
chagin has done
all his work. He
has made himself
unpopular; he
brought down
upon him the
whole weight of
the Roman
Church in Aus¬
tria; he has
offended the mili¬
tary caste : but
these things are
nothing to him.

“ My great de¬
sire as an artist
and a man is to
paint things as
they are. As a
child, when I saw
anything great
and noble, I was
anxious to give others the same impression
of it as it made upon me. And now, as a
man, that desire still prevails. If you ask
me, as a man, if I like war, I say—No; but,
as an artist, I want to give other people the
same impression of war as I had when I

took part in it. You have seen among

my pictures some great mountains in the
Caucasus — Kasbeck^ for instance. This
mountain made a strong impression upon
me, and I want my picture to make exactly
the same impression upon you.”

Vol. xvii. — 51.

“ That is the artist’s gift ? ”

“ Exactly. How I make you feel the
same impression on looking at the picture as
I felt on looking at the mountain, at the war
—there is the secret. That is the test of
the artist. There was a good French artist,
named Neuville, who painted the pictures of
one of your Ashantee wars. His pictures
are very good, but they do not impress
you as the war would have done. They
are not real. They have a theatrical veil
over them. Why? Because the artist did
not see the war. He had not studied the

country. He
did not know its
people, its land¬
scapes, and the
artist must know
all these before
he can make a
realistic picture.
Who are the
English soldiers
in Neuville’s pic¬
tures? French
models in English
clothes. Who are
the native sol¬
diers ? They, too
are French ne¬
groes, clothed in
their native garb.
No artist can
paint war as it is
without going to
war itself for his
model, and the
same rule applies
to everything
else. In war
every army has
its own peculiari¬
ties. The English
move very slowly;
the French very
quickly. A
Frenchman was
once arrested in India as an English spy. The
natives protested that he was English, and he
was brought before the Maharajah. When
the council was over the Maharajah declared
that the man could not be English because
he moved twenty times in his chair while he
was being examined, and no Englishman, he
said, would do that! The Italian soldier
moves like a cat. No Englishman would
make such a movement, so that if an Italian
painted an English soldier without close
study, the result would be very comical. If

From a] verestchagin painting a picture of napoleon. [Photo.

402

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

THE RESURRECTION.” (THIS PICTURE WAS AFTERWARDS DESTROYED, OWING TO HOSTILE CRITICISM.)
From the Picture by Verestchagin.

you would paint a real picture, you must see
the real thing. Otherwise your picture may
be admirable fiction, but it is not truth.”

“ But an artist must have imagination ? ”

“ Certainly. No artist can do without it.
You do not suppose my pictures are exactly
as I see them? But I don’t allow imagina¬

tion to go very far, so that you do not see
where it ends, or where it begins.”

Nobody can say that in urging the import¬
ance of fidelity to the real in art, M. Verest-
chagin is preaching what he does not practise.
He spent a whole year, as already remarked,
in reading, before he dipped his brush to

403

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

paint Napoleon. “ Where did you get that
dress ? ” asked the admiring French artists,
and Verestchagin was able to reply, triumph¬
antly, “ Out of your libraries.” When
he wanted to make some sketches in
the Himalayas, he climbed the highest
mountain but one in the world to study
the effects of snow and cloud. They were
six when they left the foot of the mountain ;
when they had climbed 15,000ft. they were
only two—Verestchagin and his wife. So
frightful was the ascent that even the coolies
had left them. When they had reached
15,000ft. they could get no higher. With no
other human soul near, and their limbs half
frozen, they struggled desperately for life,
and then Verestchagin left his wife alone,
three miles from the foot of the mountain.
He was going for food or help, but neither
expected to see the other again. Happily the
artist met the coolie who had last left them,
returning with food and aid. They were both
ill, but as soon as he had recovered Verest¬
chagin took out his colour-box and made
some capital sketches of Himalayan effects.

Verestchagin’s religious pictures
are another illustration of his devo¬
tion to truth and his hatred of
mere conventionalism. I asked
him to tell me the story of his famous
picture, “ The Resurrection,”

“ I was compelled to destroy the
picture,” be said, “ owing to its
hostile reception in Vienna. I found,
when I was in the Holy Land, that
the tomb in which the body of
Christ was possibly laid was very
low—as all tombs are, indeed, in
Palestine. It was impossible for our
Saviour to have walked out of the
tomb upright, and I represented Him
stooping, as He must have done.

This offended the priests in Vienna,
and a great outcry arose against the
picture. I was asked to take it down,
but refused to do so. The Arch¬
bishop of Vienna wrote a hostile
letter, and one Sunday a special
service was advertised to be held
in the cathedral at which I was to be
denounced. Thousands assembled,
and a special prayer was offered
for me, and a special hymn, com¬
posed for the occasion, was sung.
Pamphlets, condemning the picture,
were distributed in the streets in
thousands. Had there been any
irreverence in the picture, I would
have yielded to this demonstration

of public feeling, but there was no sug¬
gestion of that. 1 had visited the Holy
Land especially to prepare these religious
pictures, and I painted exactly what I found
there. I had done the work in a very
reverent spirit, and was determined not
to sacrifice it to the unreasoning prejudice
of the priests. But one day somebody
threw vitriol over the picture, and as the
damage was irreparable, I destroyed it alto¬
gether. Objection was also taken to my
picture, ‘The Holy Family, 5 because I
painted Jesus Christ amongst His brothers
and sisters; but, though an attempt was
made to destroy it, the picture was saved
by its frame. Many people objected, too,
to my picture of John the Baptist as a fakir.”

“ Have any of your war pictures been
objected to ? ”

“ I have been told many times that I
ought not to paint the awful side of war so
vividly. When I first exhibited my pictures
in Russia, people would not believe that
they were faithful works of art. They were
accustomed to see war pictures of a very

“thank you, archbishop.”

A cartoon published in Vienna during the excitement caused by Verestchagin’s
pictures, showing the artist thanking the Archbishop of Vienna for for¬
bidding the people to visit his exhibition.

404

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

different kind : a magnificent army in hand¬
some uniform, with banners waving and
bands playing as the troops rush down on
the enemy, and everything suggestive of
victory and peace; and when, instead, they
saw men writhing in agony, torn limb from
limb, mangled and bleeding — when they
saw headless bodies and arms and legs
strewn about the field, and dying men
crushed by horses falling over them ; when
they saw their heroes bleeding to death and
dying of fever and want, they said : ‘ This

is not true; this is not war. 5 They did not
like war in all its naked horror. The late
Czar was very angry with me for painting war
in such frightful colours. He thought the
people ought not to know anything of the
worst side of fighting. He was a man of
peace, but he was also a soldier, and like
all military men he thought that such
pictures were not good for the people
to see.

“ Moltke, whom I knew well, came many
times to my exhibitions in Berlin, and was
delighted with the pictures. He was the
first military man to patronize my exhibi¬
tion. But he would not allow the soldiers

to come — he gave strict orders in this
way. A number of them were to have
come together one day, but Moltke ordered
them to stay away, and they did so. He
was a charming man at home, and he and
I were very friendly, but he thought such
pictures were not for soldiers to see.

“ Some of my Russian pictures have been
objected to for very curious reasons. Years
ago I painted a Russian regiment in retreat,
which roused considerable feeling in Russia,
where the military men said that Russian

soldiers should never show their backs ! The
feeling was so strong that I burned the
painting. That was not the first time, nor
the last, that I gave way to public feeling
and destroyed an offending picture. There
was a picture of a Russian soldier who had
been left on the field to die, and the wild
birds were hovering over him, while under¬
neath was the one word, ‘ Forgotten ! 5 That
created some feeling among the soldiers,
though they knew as well as I know that
such incidents, horrifying as they seem when
painted, are quite common in war. Another
picture which I destroyed in disgust through
an outburst of unpopular feeling was a

ILL VSTRA TED INTER VIE WS.

4 °S

From the Picture by] “the road to plevna.’' [ Verestchagin.

406

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

picture of some Russian soldiers smoking
their pipes in the midst of their dead com¬
rades. I remember, too, that when I painted
Alexander II. sitting on a camp-stool watch¬
ing the attack on Plevna, many military
men were horrified that the Czar might see
it. Fancy an Emperor sitting on a stool ! ”

Many of the most famous men of our day
have visited M. Verestchagin’s exhibitions.
When the artist was in Berlin, the Emperor
and Empress of Germany went to see the
pictures. “What did the Kaiser say?” I
asked M. Verestchagin.

“ He remained some time, and looked very
earnestly at the pictures of Napoleon,” said

who want to govern the world; but they
will all end like this.’ The Emperor assured
me that he believed Napoleon wore a huge
handkerchief over his head while on the
march, and he was so pleased with the pic¬
tures that he invited me to the Parade the
next day. I asked him if he himself painted,
and he said, ‘Yes,’ and he remarked, too,
before going away, that ‘ Pictures like these
are our best guarantees against war.’”

“Your pictures appear to inspire every¬
body with a horror of war. Do you paint
them for that purpose ? ”

“ My only purpose in painting a picture is
to show you what I saw myself. I try to show

From a] the german emperor and empress visiting m. verestchagin in his studio. f Photo .

the artist. “One of them represents the
Retreat. The army is marching along the
great high road, anger and dismay on every
face. Napoleon goes on in front. His
course has been checked: Moscow, on
which he had built so many hopes, was
burnt to the ground; his army is hungry,
cold, and discontented; and there is a look
of unfathomable grief on his . face. It is a
picture of Greatness in Despair. It was on
this picture that the Emperor gazed intently
for a while, and then, turning away, he said,
£ And in spite of that there will still be men

you the truth ; what you will see in that
truth is your business, not mine. I am not
making war against war. I show you war as
it is, and leave you to draw your own con¬
clusions. You see what meaning you like in
the pictures. I have put no hidden meaning
there. It is simply a great fact, from which
you make what deduction you please. If
you are a military man, you will say, on look¬
ing at my pictures, ‘Ah! that is charming;
what a glorious time they had ! ’ If you are a
civilian you will perhaps say, “ How dreadful
it is ! Why do men kill men like swine ? ’

407

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

But what you say has nothing to do with
me. I am satisfied to represent the truth.”

“ Has the Czar seen your pictures ? ”

“ No. The Emperor of Austria saw them
in Vienna. He was much interested in the
pictures of Plevna, and after looking at them
some time, he said, ‘ What horrible misery
there is in war ! ’ The Prince of Wales has
often been to see me. He gave me a sitting
in Paris, when I painted Plis Royal Highness
on an elephant on his entry into India. The
Prince was just coming from India as I left.
He seemed fond of my pictures, and was
much struck with two Tibetan dogs I had
at the time. He had brought two from
India, and he said
he thought we were
the only men in
Europe who pos¬
sessed such animals.

Tourgenieff, the
great Russian
novelist, was an
old friend of mine,
and so was Alex¬
andre Dumas, the
younger. Dumas
was in my studio
once when a lady
asked his advice
about two famous
pictures she had.

She could not
make up her mind
whether to sell
them or not, and
she consulted
Dumas. ‘My good
lady,’ said he,

‘ while you have
these pictures you
are an interesting
personality; if you sell them you will be
nobody. Keep them.’”

M. Verestchagin’s home is in Moscow,
where he lives with his wife and his three
young children. But he does much of his
work in Paris, and at one time had a studio
in Munich. His home at Maisons-Laffitte,
within easy reach from Paris, is a charming
place m the clearing of a wood, and his studio
there is perhaps the largest studio in the world.

It is 100ft. long by. 50ft. wide, and the door
is 23ft. high, one window being 40ft. by 27 ft.
When at work here, M. Verestchagin—a tall,
well-built man—is a mere speck amidst the
great canvases which stand about, and every
word spoken echoes back again. The walls
are hung with things which bring back

the memory of the artist’s travels in India,
China, Palestine, and Central Asia, and
there is here, too, a wonderful moving studio
in which the artist may often be seen work¬
ing. It is built on the model of a similar
studio in which M. Verestchagin worked in
Munich in the earlier years of his career,
and is 33ft. square.

“ If you are to paint open-air scenes, your
models must stand in the open,” says
M. Verestchagin, and to enable this to be
done h£ designed this studio on wheels,
running on a circular tramway and opening
to the sun on the side nearest the centre
of the circle, where the model stands. It

is, in fact, a big box, in which the artist
works under cover while the model is in the
full glare of day, and which can, by a
simple mechanical arrangement, be made to
follow the shifting light. Here, and at his
studio in Moscow, the whole of M. Verest¬
chagin’s pictures have been painted.

“I paint very slowly,” he said, when I
asked him to give me an idea of his methods
of working. . “ When I was younger I used
to rise at six and paint for sixteen hours a
day, but I am getting lazy now, and rarely
work more than eight. You can put me
down as a believer in an eight hours’
day. I have always been willing to
give up all my time to painting. People
sometimes ask me why I paint so

408

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

work is not going well, I am not a man. I
can neither eat, drink, nor sleep. You might
take me and throw me from the window. I
am a man again when things go right, as
they do after a while ; but you mustn’t come
near me when I am unfortunate ! ”

But in spite of unfortunate periods and
distressing moods, M. Verestchagin has
managed to get through an astonishing
amount of work during his fifty-six years of
life. He has taken part in two wars, has
travelled in nearly every land, and has written
several books. He is not perhaps widely
known as an author, but he has written one
or two volumes which have attained some

subjects, and it is also interesting as an
evidence of the versatility of Verestchagin s
genius. And, besides all this work, he has
painted so much that he was once seriously
accused of declaring other artists work
to be his own. No single man, it was
said in Munich, could .paint such a num¬
ber and such a variety of pictures. But
the inquiry committee instituted by the
Munich Society of Arts declared the charge
to be as unfounded as it was base. T. he
slanderers did not know Verestchagin. They
could not know that he would rather daub
every picture he has painted than paint a
falsehood.

much. Why does a mother love her
child ? Tell me that, and I will tell you
why I paint. Sometimes an idea occurs to
me which I persistently resist. I say to
myself, ‘ I won’t paint that picture.’ But the
idea haunts me. I dream about it, and at
last I paint the picture because I cannot
help painting it. At the end of the day I
spend my leisure with my family, my wife
being a musician, or go out to a concert.
But there are times 'when I give up these
things. Sometimes I cannot get on with my
work, and it gives me great pain. When my

popularity in England. His novel based on
the Russo-Turkish War—where, by the way,
one of his brothers was killed—was published
in England many years ago, and he has lately
added another to his English works : “ 1812
— Napoleon in Russia,” in which all who
admire his pictures cannot fail to be greatly
interested. The work involved some years
of preparation, and just as M. Verestchagin’s
pictures reveal Napoleon in a new light, his
book tells us much about the great Emperor
which is new. As a work of history it is of
great value, throwing new light on many old

From a]

M. VERESTCHAGIN S STUDIO NEAR PARIS.

A CUBAN STORY.

By Neil Wynn Williams.

A it (hoy of “ The Bayonet (hat Came Home,”
“ The Green Field,” etc.

HE table was long and narrow.
It ran from end to end of the
cabin. We—a double row of

naval officers—were just seat¬
ing ourselves upon either side
of its green baize cloth. Our
glances turned restlessly towards the head of
the table. The Admiral sat there. His face
was exceptionally stern. Why had he sum¬
moned us ?

We were ready. The
Admiral leant back in
his chair. He said
something in a low tone
to the orderly standing
stiffly by his side. The
latter quitted the cabin,
closing the door carefully
behind him. We were
alone.

There was a moment’s
respectful silence, broken
only by the wash of the
waves under the open port¬
holes. Then the Admiral
began to explain.

I grew restless as I
listened. My face felt hot.

He had scarcely finished
when I rose to my feet.

“ I volunteer. I’ll take
the risks, sir,” I said,
loudly, eagerly.

There was a murmur
from the double row of
officers. They looked at

Vol. xvii. - 52 .

me with disapproval. I swept my glance
fiercely from face to face.

But the Admiral addressed me.

“ You fully understand, Lieutenant Saul?”
he said, inquiringly. “If you should be
taken, you run every chance of being shot
by the Spaniards as a spy.”

“ I do, sir. But I take the risks,” I
repeated, firmly.

We were officers of the United States fleet,

“*I VOLUNTEER,’ I SAID, EAGERLY.”

4 io

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

then blockading the Port of Havana in
Cuba. The Admiral had not concealed the
dangers of the service for which I had just
volunteered. It required me to cut free or
destroy the captive balloon that could be
seen from our decks at any hour of the
day poised over Havana. This balloon had
been supplying the Spaniards with valuable
information about our movements and the
movements of our allies—the Cuban insur¬
gents. So far as a month back, the latter
had undertaken to destroy it. But the
Cubans are like the Spaniards. Their motto
is “ To-morrow.” And the Admiral had
determined to wait no longer. His plan of
action was simple. A boat from the fleet
should secretly land a volunteer disguised as
a Cuban reconcentrado, or refugee. After
that, it would be the volunteer’s own business
how he got rid of the balloon.

It had scarcely required the Admiral’s
explanations to point out to me the extreme
danger of the service which I was under¬
taking. I possessed a certain colloquial
command of Spanish. I had once stayed
for some months in Havana. These were
points in my favour. But then I had to
make my way through a hostile town in the
disguise of a Cuban. I must be shot as a
spy if I were discovered.

And supposing I safely arrived at the
balloon! Presumably, it would have a
guard. I should have to scheme, act, and
finally—to escape.

“ You fully understand, Lieutenant Saul ? ”
the Admiral had said, inquiringly.

I did—I did understand the risks. And
if the service had been twice as dangerous, I
would have undertaken it. Listen ! With
bitterness in my heart, I will whisper to
you why. In America, the negro and the
half-caste are not upon an equality with
the white. There is a social gulf between
them. They do not eat, they do not even
travel together. An enemy had spread
the report that I had black blood in me. It
was a lie; it could not be proved. Never¬
theless, my brother officers believed in it.
If gallantry could crush the lying rumours
that were robbing me of all friendship,
gallantry should do it. Now you will under¬
stand why, when the boat took me ashore,
they let me go with never a hand-shake.

It was midnight when I quitted the fleet.
Day was breaking as I entered Havana.
Soon a pearly grey of the heavens was chang¬
ing into azure, and the light had grown strong
enough for me to see the form of the balloon

brooding high over the city. But the sight
was a disappointment. It proved farther
away from me than I had expected. I could
not see the rope which held it poised above
a mass of red roofs and green trees. I
walked* forwards rapidly, taking now this
street, now another; but always trending
towards the balloon as it appeared to
me between or over the houses—through
or over a tree. Doors opened. People came
forth. I met their glances. When they
addressed me, I returned their greetings.
Once, there was a scream ; and, forgetting
all, I ran forwards.

“There ! There ! Let me see, little one,”
I urged, coaxingly.

“ But what is it,-then ? ” said the mother,
running from her doorway, with terrified
eyes.

“ He fell. He tripped,” I said. “ See !
his nose bleeds.” And I took out a rag,
such as a Cuban carries, to stanch the little
one’s face.

“ Ah ! Ah ! See the good man’s tender¬
ness,” cried the grateful mother, as the hus¬
band came forth.

I was hungry.

“You ask me ! ” I said.

“We do!” And their voices caressed
me together in their Spanish.

It was so, with a blessing, that I took my
first food in Havana.

The boat had landed me upon the east of
the city. The balloon hung above the con¬
fines of the west. I did not know my road
clearly till I had reached the great streets of
the centre. Some hours passed before I
arrived at the summit of a small hill. A
short incline of glaring white road ran down
before me to the cool shadow of an archway.
The elevation upon which I stood was
sufficient for me to look over some red-tiled
roofs into a square courtyard behind. The
balloon was retained immediately above this
by a great cable attached to a winch. While
I was observing, two Spanish soldiers dressed
in blue tunics and white trousers appeared
from under the eaves of the one-storied
building surrounding the yard, and seated
themselves upon a bench by the side of the
winch. Rolling cigarettes, they began to
smoke. Presently the taller one of the two
yawned, looking upwards. I followed his
glance to the bulging mass of the balloon
above. There was a glitter of brass moving
restlessly upon the edge of the car. I
thought that I understood. The prospect
was being swept with a t elescope.

THE TALE OF THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEER.

I descended the hill uncertainly. The
leaves of a great wooden door closed the
archway. I peered through the interstices
of the planks. As I reflected I grew sud¬
denly fearful, remembering that I might be
observed from the balloon above. The
thought drove me on in the shadow from the
whitewashed wall of the building. I passed
indeterminately by some wooden-shuttered
windows—I turned an angle. Here I saw a
ruined cottage, whose door gaped like a
broken jaw—whose shattered roof had sunk
feebly for support against one side of the
buildings inclosing th*e courtyard. It was
my opportunity. I entered it swiftly for
concealment.

The silence of the deserted cottage was
soothing. A bird hopping up upon a
window-sill gave me its com¬
pany. In a little while my
nerve had come back, and I
determined to approach the
soldiers with an excuse that
should gain admission for me
into the yard. Once there I
would seek my opportunity
to cut loose the balloon, and
afterwards—if Heaven pro¬
tected me from the rifles—
to escape.

One of the soldiers appeared
to my knock at the wooden
door of the archway.

I began to speak rapidly.

The soldier’s glance wan¬
dered over the rags of my
disguise. It was evident that
I was a beggarly refugee.

His eyes hesitated between
pity and disgust. Then
the door began to close.

“ Listen ! For pity’s sake,
listen, Senhor ! ” I urged.

While he again hesitated,

I came closer to him, so
that the rudeness of closing
the door against my very
person would be necessary.

He turned his head.

“ Juan ! ” he shouted, in
perplexity, to his comrade.

The soldier whom I had
seen yawning came to
his side. There was an explanation between
them. They were going to say “No,” when
a crimson-stained rag, the same with which
I had stanched a child’s blood earlier in the
day, fell from my breast to the ground.

“See, Juan,” said the first soldier, pitifully,

thinking that it was my blood, “the poor
devil has a consumption. He has been
spitting blood from the lungs.”

I affected to cough hollowly, miserably,
placing a hand to my chest. The soldiers
drew back, and allowed me to enter the
courtyard.

I had told the soldiers that I would work
for them, if they would but give to me a crust
of bread and a shelter for the coming night.
They accepted my story of myself. There
appeared no suspicion in their minds as they
took me into one of the buildings where was
an apparatus to make the gas replenishments
of the balloon. “ You will do this and this,”
they said.

And they went lazily away to smoke cigar¬
ettes upon the bench by the great winch.

“ LISTEN ! FOR PITY’S SAKE.”

For two hours I worked steadily at filling
a tank with steel shavings, that it might be
ready for the acid and water that would
later be poured in. Then one of the
soldiers called me to them. They were
going to take bread and wine. 1 was to

412

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

have my share. “ Sit you here,” they said,
their bayonet scabbards rattling against the
bench, as they pushed along to make room
for me.

We ate. We chatted. When I was
ordered back to my work I had gained
knowledge. The thick rope that retained
the balloon in position had a strand of wire
interwoven. It would be impossible to
sever it with one slash of my knife, as had
been my hope. I must await the oppoi-
tunities of the night. 1 must be prepared to
act under cover of darkness, or the soldiers
would otherwise have time to shoot or stab
me before my object was accomplished. It
was a necessity, but this suspense was terrible.

The room where I was working had a
window whose shutter opened out amongst
the branches of an orange tree. Glancing
through the glossy green leaves and by the
yellow fruits, I saw messengers occasionally
come and go from the soldiers. Once an
officer arrived. His appearance alarmed me.
But it was soon explained, for the soldiers
wound down the balloon, and taking papers
from its occupant, gave them to the officer.
Afterwards the latter went away with the
aerostatic report, perhaps ignorant of my
presence, for I had kept very still. A little
later, the balloon again ascended. And every¬
thing grew quiet!

At eventide the soldiers inspected my
work. It was satisfactory. I. accompanied
them to a shed, where I was to light a lire
for an evening meal. They were standing
by, watching me, when a step approached us
hurriedly. I looked up. A Spanish corporal
was advancing towards us from the archway
with a blue paper in his hand.

“ Who is that com¬
ing, Juan?” one of
the soldiers asked his
comrade. “ He is not
of Ours,” and he
looked hard at the
approaching corporal.

Juan gazed doubt¬
fully making no reply.

A second afterwards
the stranger was by
our sides, explaining.

He was of the 40th
Regiment of the Line.

He had brought
orders from the officer
in command of the
district.

He held out the
blue paper. Juan

took it, and began to read. Presently he
raised his eyes.

“ Then you are posted here, over us ? he
asked.

“Yes,” replied the corporal; “the rest ot
the detail will arrive to-morrow.” .

“How many?” Juan asked, carelessly,
returning the blue paper. ^

“Ten men and an officer of the 40th,”
said the corporal, his eyes looking round and
meeting mine.

I looked away. There was a pause. Then
the corporal spoke again.

“ Who are you ? ” he- asked.

I felt that he had addressed me. Pretend¬
ing that I was busy with the fire, I bent
lower over it.

“What is he doing here?” said. the
corporal’s voice, and I felt that he pointed
at me.

The soldiers explained.

“ A beggarly refugee ? He must go. It is
against orders,” said the corporal, roughly.

I looked up and began to plead, cunningly.

“ You must go ! ” said the corporal. “ I
order it. Quick ! March ! ”

He pointed to the gateway with a stiff
finger. Still I endeavoured to excuse myself.
But the expression of his sallow face con¬
tracted fiercely, his black eyes threatened
violence. I was obliged to yield. As I
quitted the courtyard by the archway, I heard
the loud order of the corporal:—

“ Lock the gates ! and bring me the key.”

[ I QUITTED THE COURTYARD.

THE TALE OF THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEER.

4i3

II.

There was an intense silence as I looked
into the inky darkness. I doubted whether
I were awake or asleep. Where was I ? The
question with its anxiety made me sit sud¬
denly up. Could you have seen my eyes, they
would have been widely open and staring.

A something moved and fell with a springy
thud. Immediately afterwards there was an
outburst of thin but ferocious squealing, and
the blackness stirred with a hurry-scurry.
This movement of rats was no sooner
recognised than it suggested to me where I
was. “ S-s-shush ! ” I hissed, angrily, blaming
myself for having slept.

I rose to my feet, moving cautiously over
a creaking floor. My hand came into con¬
tact with a wall. I traced it—smooth here,
rough there-—to a doorway through which I
passed upon a piled debris of wood, brick,
and powdery plaster. A fresh air met my
face. It blew downwards from a lesser
darkness. I began to climb towards the
latter. I mounted higher and higher, passing
head and shoulders into uncovered night.
Then I paused to listen. But all was silent.
And presently my knees were feeling under
them the rounded channels of a tiled roof as
I went higher, higher, till suddenly I looked
over its ridge. The courtyard was below me.

I was upon the roof of one of its surrounding
buildings, to which I had mounted from the
deserted cottage. Some twenty yards away
I could see a ruddy fire
under a shed. There
were three bodies lying
prostrate in its glare.

They were those of the
corporal and his two
men. They seemed
asleep. For the rest, the
courtyard was in formless
gloom.

I drew my revolver.

And how it happened, 1
do not know; at the
same time my Cuban
knife fell from its scab¬
bard, and taking one of
the little channels of the
roof, slipped downwards
out of my reach towards
the deserted cottage from
which I had just climbed.

I descended after it. The
search occupied some
minutes. When I had
again attained my former
position upon the ridge,

the soldiers were still sleeping. A cold thrill
went over me. I was going to descend into
the courtyard and remove and secrete their
arms. Afterwards, revolver in hand, I would
hack through the rope of the balloon or die
in the endeavour.

I took the blade of the knife between my
teeth and began to slide downwards. Sud¬
denly a rough growth of lichen checked my
descent. Endeavouring to drag myself
downwards with my heels, a tile broke away;
and as it clattered to the ground, I lost my
balance and followed a-heap into the court¬
yard. The noise of the fall was consider¬
able. It seemed impossible but that it must
have aroused the soldiers. And yet, after
one slight movement of the corporal, there
they lay the same as before my descent.

I waited till the storm of my heart had
passed. Then, following the wall of the
buildings, I approached them closer and
closer. At length I was upon the brink of
the pool of glare surrounding the fire. If I
left the shadow and crossed lightly, silently,
to the centre of this, I could seize their arms.

I held my breath. Then I advanced on
tip-toe, my eyes upon the three men. I was,
perhaps, two yards from them when-

“ Halt ! ” said a voice, in a hoarse whisper.
“ Or I shoot you.”

And suddenly raising himself upon an
elbow as he lay between the two soldiers, the
corporal levelled a rifle at me. The action

“ THE CORPORAL LEVELLED A RIFLE AT ME.”

4 r 4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

was like the sudden uprearing of a poisonous
snake. I drew back spasmodically.

Revolver to rifle, we looked at one
another.

“You are for the insurgents?” inquired
the corporal. “ A spy, maybe ? ”

“ Speak lower ! If you rouse those others,
I’ll fire,” was my desperate reply.

“Answer!’’ordered the corporal,whispering.

“ I am a Yankee,” I said.

The expression of the corporal’s face
changed.

“ We are friends,” he said, abruptly.

“ What ! You doubt me ? See here, then.
These men are dead. I have stabbed them
to the heart.”

And, lowering his rifle, he rolled the
soldiers over so that I could see the death
in their faces.

I soon understood. The corporal was an
insurgent in disguise. The District orders
which he had presented to the dead soldiers
had been expressly forged so that he might
have an opportunity to cut free the balloon.
At first taking me for what I had seemed—a
non-combatant refugee likely to complicate
his purpose—fie had ordered me away. The
death of the two soldiers must have taken
place just as I was climbing the roof for the
second time. They had been stabbed in
their sleep. The suspicious noise of my
fall had retained the corporal watchfully
prostrate till I stepped into the light, and
he levelled his rifle at me.

“ I guessed then, by the secrecy with
which you were advancing, that you must
belong to us,” he said.

We were hidden by the roof of the shed,
and were hastily carrying on our conversation
in whispers, so that the man in the balloon
might not take alarm. A bold scheme
suddenly occurred to me, as the corporal
suggested that we should get to work.

“Stay a moment! I have an idea,” I
exclaimed. “ We are now two. And there
is but one man above. . . . Yes, I propose
that we wind the balloon down. . . . Exactly
so ! and escape with it.”

The corporal looked at me, thoughtfully.

“ You are a brave man,” he said, saluting.

“ Come,” I replied. “ But understand !
If it is possible to take the balloon without
killing, we do so.”

The corporal looked perplexed.

“ But why ? ” he asked. “ It will be so
easy.”

A Cuban is a Cuban.

“ I will have no murder,” I said, simply.
My determination was impressive.

“ As you will,” replied the corporal, politely,
shrugging his shoulders.

We quitted the shed. With the glare of
the fire yet in our eyes, we began to penetrate
the wall of blackness which veiled the centre
of the yard where lay the winch.

“Whereabouts are you?” I whispered,
presently.

“This way, here,” the corporal’s voice
answered from my right.

“ I’ve found, it,” I explained.

The corporal’s step moved towards me.
Presently I took his hand, guiding it upon
an iron windlass by the side of my own.

“ All right! ” he whispered, the thickness
of his shoulder coming against mine.

“ Gently ! ” I said, looking strainingly
above into the blackness.

And we began to turn the windlass round
and round. The winch worked smoothly and
silently at first. It seemed possible that we
might be able to draw the balloon down with¬
out its occupant becoming aware of his descent
amidst the darkness. I expressed this hope
to the corporal, forgetting that as the balloon
approached the earth it would meet with
greater atmospheric resistance. The fact,
however, was soon recalled to memory by
the windlass gradually working harder. There
arrived a point when the winch began to
creak under the strain.

“ He will hear,” the corporal whispered,
his left hand nervously searching for his
rifle.

“ Wind faster! ” I ordered, fiercely, in his
ear, my eye seeking anxiously for the loom
of the descending balloon. “ If he hails us,
reply with what I tell you.”

The fire upon the left showed the bodies
of the two soldiers stiffly outlaid. Save for
the creaking of the winch, the courtyard was
in deathly silence. Suddenly I grew con¬
scious of an indescribable palpitation :
whether it were of the light from the flicker¬
ing fire, or of a noise amidst the blackness, I
could not at first determine. Yet it was
there. My nerves were responding sensi¬
tively to it.

“I thought,” said the corporal, doubt¬
fully, “ I thought that I heard-”

Pausing, he held the windlass stiffly
motionless.

He had. It was the thrumming of the
silk of the balloon whose car had stolen
down unperceived within reach of our hands.
I recognised it suddenly amidst the darkness.
The time for action had come upon us with
a rush.

“ Listen.! ” I whispered to the corporal.

THE TALE OF THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEER,

4i5

“ I understand,” he said.

The next moment I had clambered into
the car of the balloon and was pressing a
revolver to the head of its sleeping occupant.

“ W-what — Who — ? ” he stammered,
awaking.

“ Silence !—Bind and gag him ! ” I said to
the corporal, who had followed me.

It was swiftly done. We lifted the prisoner,
lowering him over the side of the balloon.
The corporal breathed hard.

“ H-he is too heavy. He is-”

The man slipped from our hands, killing
the last foot with a fleshy thump.

“ Quick! Your knife,” I said to the
corporal.

And with my whole strength cutting,
slashing at the rope—it parted ; and we shot
upwards from darkness high into steady
starlight.

III.

I looked over the edge of the car.

Lapsing like rain into an ocean, a purity
of pale green light poured broadly downwards
to the black plain of the cloud through

which we had upsprung. Motionless at its
surface and in its depth, the magnificence
of this distant sable sea lay bound by stars
whose fires dripped down in deep reflections.
Suddenly the intense silence of this nether
world was snatched away from me by the
voice of the corporal.

I had been lost to our position in an
ecstasy. I turned towards him, peevishly.

“ YVhat did you say ? ” I said.

He moved towards me over the wicker¬
work floor of the car, treading timorously,
lest it should break with his weight.

“ I am ill. I require a doctor,” he said,
lugubriously.

His face was distressed: the veins swollen,
the eyes staring.

“ How ? What do you feel ? ” I asked,
anxiously.

The corporal raised a hand to his chest

“ I cannot breathe here,” he gasped.
“ There is a noise in my ears like a mill,
Mr. Officer.”

I laughed cheerfully, to encourage-him.

“ Psutt! ” I exclaimed. “ I understand.
We have gone too high for you.”

And I looked round, searching for the
cord of the gas-valve.

“ You feel better now ! ” I suggested, when
we had descended five hun¬
dred feet, according to a baro¬
meter hanging from the side
of the car.

“A little,” he admitted,
looking respectfully at me.

“ But I would like to get out.”

His eyes rolled timidly as he
expressed the wish. Evidently,
the corporal had lost nerve.

Where we might be, and
whether we were moving, 1
could not tell. The monotony
of the black cloud beneath
offered no point that would
enable me to register any
horizontal movement of the
balloon. This perception
made me suddenly anxious.
Cuba is an island. Havana
is close to the sea. With no
very clear idea in my mind
what I should do with it, I
began to search for a compass.
If there were one on board,

I could not find it. My eye, however, was
attracted by a coil of rope and its grapnel,
which were attached to the outside of the
car.

“ Corporal,” I said, abruptly addressing

416

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

him, “you are acquainted with the districts
around Havana ? ”

“ For miles,” he replied, confidently.

“Then it will be best to descend below
the cloud,” I suggested, “and to anchor till
daylight breaks.”

“ As you will! ” said the corporal.

My determination was a resolute one. II,
when day broke, the corporal should recognise
that we had anchored amongst the insurgents,
our work would be finished. But if amongst
the Spaniards ! Well! I would again cut
the cord, and endeavour to escape by throw¬
ing overboard the weight of the instruments
and other oddments with which the car of
the balloon was filled. Nothing, save the
loss of my life, should induce me to surrender
the balloon. 1 was a desperate man, and
still hungry for distinction; you understand
why .

I opened the gas-valve, and we began to
descend. Presently the stars began to pale.
We were sinking into the gloom of'the cloud
below. The little light that came to us grew
less and less, as shadows coiled and mounted
vaporously above our heads. Soon we could
no longer see each other’s faces. The sensa¬
tion of this gradual subsidence into a form¬
less night was terrific. I felt the corporal
press close to me for comfort. His heavy
breathing affected me with a sense of suffoca¬
tion as I held tense the cord of the valve.

I pushed him away.

“ I cannot see,” he said, whimperingly.

His words threw me into a sudden alarm.
I let go the cord, the valve closing above our
heads with a snap.

“ Stay ! I was forgetting,” I said, loudly.
“It will be dangerous, impossible, to descend
before daybreak. We shall not be able to
see the ’earth. In this darkness we may
strike a tree or a rock- the ground itself
may wreck us ! ”

“ But the anchor you mentioned,” groaned
the corporal.

“Pah! ”1 exclaimed, impatiently, “We
shall not be able to see. How can we throw
out the anchor if we cannot, see where to
.Throw it? We must go no lower till day¬
break gives us an idea of our distance from
the ground. Heavens ! ” I muttered to my¬
self, “ if I had not remembered in time ! ”

It proved a dreary wait of hours before
the east showed itself in a faintest efflor¬
escence of lilac light. 'The slow expansion
of this first luminosity changed colour with
its growth. A creeping tide of yellow raised
its bar along a far horizon, and, determining
boldly, gave cold light broadly towards us.

Soon we were seeing deeply and more deeply
downwards. At length the opening shadows
beneath parted from before a heart of solid
form. Judging that our time had come, I
again opened the gas-valve.

Our descent was rapid. The form below
us grew upwards. Soon I made vaguely out
the springy bosom of a forest. I approached
closer, then, releasing the gas-valve, I allowed
the balloon to drift horizontally, seeking for
an open space where we might anchor. A
long gulf of shadow caught my eye amidst
the moving flood of bosky growth. It came
towards us. The trees ended and stood
stiffly at its edge. I let go the grapnel into
this gulf of shadow. There was a catching,
a catching, and then—a sudden jerk. At
that moment the dim expanse of the forest
grew still. And turning to the corporal, I
said, joyfully: —

“ It is all right. It has caught. We are
anchored.”

A low seat ran around the inside of the
car. The corporal and I were weary. We
sat down to wait patiently for a clearer
light. Anon the corporal volunteered a
statement.

“ I believe it is the forest of Cuenea,” he
said, alluding to the trees below.

“ Cuenea ? ” I repeated, inquiringly.

“ Yes,” he replied. “ The size makes me
think so. And the swelling hill, with the
greater trees upon it, will be St. Sebastian.
There is a town upon the other side with a
strong Spanish garrison.”

I looked over the edge of the car in the
direction that he had indicated. The land¬
scape was still vague.

“ You think so? ” I said, drowsily.

“ I think so,” repeated the corporal.
“ But the light is strengthening. I shall soon
know. If it should be St. Sebastian, we are
yet some way from friends.”

“ TI, well! ” I yawned. “ I feel dead tired

and-I! and hungry too.” Casting my

eye round the interior of the balloon, I
observed a basket.

“ Just look inside that, will you, corporal ? ”
I begged, pointing. “It looks as if it might
hold something eatable.”

The wicker lid creaked as he raised it.

“ The blessed heavens! There is,” he
said, gaily, handing me a roast fowl and some
brown bread. He added, pulling out a
wooden bottle, “ And wine, too ! ”

A reaction was upon me.

“You are not hungry. You will not want
any,” I said, banteringly.

THE TALE OE THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEER .

4i7

The corporal showed his teeth in a wolfish
grimace. They were very white. We laughed.

My mouth was full. I spoke indistinctly.

“ Pardon. I did not hear,” said the
corporal, holding a horn in his left hand,
whilst with the other he began to unscrew
the stopper of the wooden bottle.

“ It must be a road below,” I repeated,
referring to the gulf of shadow in which we
had anchored.

“ Who knows ! ” said the corporal, indiffer¬
ently, giving his whole attention to the wine
that was pouring
forth in a delicious
amber stream.

The corporal
and I had each
had a hornful.

“Drink, Mr.

Officer ! ” said he,
h a nding me a
second.

I looked at him
oyer the bubbles
upon the brim.

“To your health,”

I said-

But the wine
never reached my
lips.

A sudden roar
of sound came to
our ears from
below. There was
a violent shock.

And swathed
about with a dense
white cloud, we
were hurled to
our knees at the
bottom of the
car. The dis¬
tress of our
position grew
instantaneously
worse: the car
began to tip
over sideways—
the great pear

of the balloon to lie over horizontally,
felt that we were being dragged along by
some tremendous force. As I shouted to
the corporal to hold on for his life, the white
cloud left us suddenly as it had come. And
the car moved through the air in a flight
gradually steadying of its first terrific surges.
Then I guessed what had happened.

Our anchor had caught under the sleeper
of a railway cutting. A train had stolen

Vol. xvii. —53.

upon us through a tunnel. The anchor, or
some portion of its rope, had jammed into
the engine’s cow-catcher.

I climbed pantingly to a position whence
I could see; we were over the engine of a
passenger train. The driver hailed me in
Spanish, his eyes looking fearfully upwards.

Questions and answers passed rapidly
between us.

Suddenly I drew my revolver.

“ Full steam ahead ! ” I ordered, with a yell.
He tried to cover himself behind some
coals.

I sent a bullet
through his cap.
Another split a
block of coal into
flying grits.

He raised his
hands, appeal-
ingly.

“Full steam
ahead, then ! ” I
ordered, “ or I’ll
fire again.”

He pulled a
lever obediently.

The engine-
driver had in¬
formed me that
the train was
carrying troops.
As yet, the latter
seemed unaware
of our presence
above.

“If we could
only reach the
camp at Vittoria
we should be
saved,” said the
corporal.

“ We will,” I
said, resolutely,
noting the i n -
creasing pace of
the engine with
an excitement
whose like I shall'
never feel again. . . . “No, I will not cut
the rope. And we’ll carry the troops with
us or die like men.”

Arrows of brilliant sunlight were glancing
off the green bosoms of the forest as the
engine approached a curve in the line. A
confused uproar from the troops imprisoned
in the swaying carriages below gave us warn¬
ing that they were becoming alarmed with
the furious pace at which they were travelling.

4iS

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

I could fancy that their heads were through
the windows, endeavouring to see what was
the matter.

“Another ten minutes at this pace, and
we shall be through the Spanish position and
amongst our men,” said the corporal.

I did not reply. I feared the effect of the
curve, towards which the train was rushing
thunderously.

And it happened according to my antici¬
pation. As the engine took the curve, our
balloon swayed away from its directly over¬
head position above the carriages, so that
the soldiers saw us.

“ Hide your rifle ! They will see it,” I
said, hurriedly, to the corporal.

But he was too late. The soldiers had
taken in their position. A door flew swing-
ingly open. And I saw the head and
shoulders of a man preparing to fire at our
swaying mark.

There was just time to send a bullet at
him.

Then the engine had passed around the
curve; and we again swung out of sight above
their heads.

The corporal gave a cheer.

The line was now straight. We were
dragged furiously on for, perhaps, five
hundred yards.

“ Quick ! ” I said, to the corporal. “ There!
climbing upon the roof of the second
carriage.”

And, as he brought his rifle to the
shoulder, I emptied my revolver at others
who were endeavouring with wild yells to
escalade the roofs, so that they might fire
at us.

The attempt was over quickly. I looked
back. Some brightly-dressed bodies struggled
by the track of the line far behind us. One
lay stiffly still.

Suddenly the corporal shouted—

“ There is Vittoria. See! the church.”

“ Where ? ” I said, bringing my eyes away
from the bodies. “You mean—there?” I
inquired, stretching my arm pointingly over
the edge of the car.

He had not time to reply.

There was an explosion. A volley of

bullets was fired through the woouen roofs of
the carriages. One passed hotly through my
forearm.

The corporal grew busy bandaging me.

There was another explosion. Another
volley buzzed fiercely upwards. This time,
the silk envelope of the balloon was pierced.
There was an escape of gas.

I shook off the corporal.

“ More steam ! ” 1 yelled to the engine-
driver.

“ I dare not,” he answered.

“ More steam ! ” I repeated, passionately ;
and the corporal pointed his rifle downwards.

The man obeyed.

We felt that another volley was due. The
eyes of the corporal and myself sought the
splintered roofs anxiously. Blue smoke was
wreathing upwards from two of them. I
leant far out of the car to make sure.

“ By heavens ! ” I exclaimed, “ the rifles
have set them afire.”

We were dragged onwards. Still no
bullets came. It was evident that the soldiers
were endeavouring to extinguish the flames in
the roofs above their heads.

But the balloon was gradually sinking!
Should we reach the lines of white tents
ahead, or should we fall amongst the furiously
rattling wheels, beneath, like a great wounded
bird ?

Lower, lower we sank with violent oscilla¬
tions. A great mist came before my eyes,
my breast pressed heavily and more heavily
against the side of the car.

I remember hearing the corporal shout to
the engine-driver.

Then I fell headlong and down, down into
a yielding blackness.

When I came to myself, I was in the
hospital of the insurgent camp.

“ I am thirsty,” I. said.

They gave me to drink.

I turned over on my side with a smile.
For I understood that later, when I should
climb the ship’s side, there would be the
hands of my brother-officers outstretched to
welcome me.

And it was so !

A Peep into “ Punch"

By J. Holt Schooling.

[The Proprietors of “Punch " have given special permission to reproduce the accompanying illustrations. This
is the first occasion when a periodical has been enabled to present a selection from Mr. Punch's famous pages.']

Part IV.—1860 to 1864.

This part contains the first of George du Maimer's “ Punch " pictures, and the last by fohn Leech.

and the invading

THE NEXT INVASION.

LANDING OF THE FRENCH (UOUT 1HNF.S) AND DISCOMFITURE OF OLD GEKKIUI, PEER.

-BY LEECH. i860.

the new nurse,
those boys who

beer
wine.

Mr. Punch’s verses
accompanying this cartoon
are headed:—

Mutual Improvement.

Ye who rejoice in beer and
pipes,

You ought not to repine,

But be right glad if British
swipes

Compete with light French
wine ;

Because the contest will be,
which

Potation shall prevail,

And small beer then will grow
more rich,

And men brew better ale.

Etc., etc., etc.

The picture No. 2 was
suggested to Leech by one
of his own children, the
Discerning Child of the
sketch, who, having heard
some remarks made by
his father as to the treat¬
ment of children, says to
“Well, then, I’m one of
can only be managed with
some

kindness — so you had better get
Sponge Cakes and Oranges at once ! ”

OHN LEECH’S cartoon in
No. 1 was published in Punch
on February n, i860. It
shows the then-imminent In¬
vasion of England by the
French (light wines) and the
“ discomfiture of old General Beer.” This
clever picture alludes to an important com¬
mercial treaty with France, negotiated in
i860 by Richard Cobden, who acted as
British Commissioner in the affair; the trade
between France and our country was greatly
increased by this treaty, of which Mr. Glad¬
stone said (in August, 1866): “ I don’t believe
that the man breathed upon earth at that
epoch, or now breathes upon earth, that
could have effected that great measure, with
the single exception of Mr. Cobden.”

One result of the treaty was to give us the
benefit of French wines, a pleasant addition
to the ports, sherries, and Madeiras of forty
years, ago; French clarets and burgundies
are in the battalions we see advancing on
poor old General Beer, who, however, was
not permanently discomfited by this invasion
of the French, for he soon found that the
British public readily assimilated both his

2.— BY LEECH. i860.

420

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

No. 3 refers to
the great Volun¬
teer movement
of forty years
ago, which fol¬
lowed the send¬
ing of a circular
letter, dated May
12, 1859, from

the Secretary for
War to the Lord-
Lieutenants of
counties in Great
Britain authoriz¬
ing the formation
of Volunteer
corps. The en¬
rolment of men

was so rapid that during a few months in
1859-60 a force of 119,000 Volunteers was

THOSE HORRID BOYS AGAIN!

Boy (to JUtiitgnuM 1'nUnUrr). "Now, CAirnin! Ctrix TtB Boors asp let ter

3.—BY LEECH. i860.

Mr. Bool: “ So I
am, Moossoo—and
these are some of
the Boys who mind
the Shop ! — Com-
prenny ? ”

There are
many amusing
things in Punch
based on the say¬
ings of omnibus
men. No. 4 illus¬
trates the impa¬
tience of the
driver, who
admonishes a
dilatory con¬
ductor :—

“ Now then, Bill,
Why, one would think

tsouj- tfa* Qu ^ i Y* y*.

- CoAp> or*.

'tvU' o-u£ <2 /&H, Cofa.

NATURAL IMPATIENCE.

4.—BY LEECH. i860.

created—to one of these soldiers, Mr.
Punch’s street-arab in No. 3 says, “Now,
Capting! Clean yer Boots, and let
yer ’ave a Shot at me for a Penny ! ”

Punch in those days sometimes
poked fun at the Volunteers, as did
most other people, and it was not
to be expected that this so-called
mushroom army should escape a
certain amount of ridicule, which
the inefficiency of the old Volunteers
of earlier times had associated with
the name.

However, in No. 5, Mr. Punch,
always patriotic, shows the Volun¬
teers in a much more dignified light,
when John Bull is replying to the
Frenchman’s remark :—

“ Mais, Mosieu Bool, I ave all ways
thought you vass great Shopkeeparc ! ”

ain’t yer got ’em all out yet ? ■. , - e

you was picking ’em out with a pin like Winkles !

It is necessary of course to
show the pictures here in a
smaller size than on the pages
of Punch , and this reduction
sometimes makes the wording
at the bottom of the pictures
rather small — so it may be
useful to repeat the “ legends ”
of the pictures as one comes
to them. No. 6 reads :—

“Well, my little man, what do you
want ? ”

“Wot do I want?—Vy, Guv’ner,
I thinks I wants Heverythink ! ”

In No. 7 we have a fancy
portrait of the Prince of Wales
on his return from the United
States : he is speaking to his
father, Prince Albert, and at
the time to which this picture
refers, the Prince was just nineteen
years of age.

THE VOLUNTEER MOVEMENT.

Torti]% Party. " Min, Mojieu Booi, 1 A
Ur. Bod. " Bo I AM. Moossoo-aXD TBtS

5.—A SURPRISE FOR THE FRENCHMEN. i860.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

421

CANDOUR

" Will, my liUU man, 1 chat da you want I "

11 Wot da I want f — Vy, Guv'ntr, I thinks 7 ma»t» RtvirytXink /" _

6.— A STREET-ARAH OF i860.

The verses accompanying this portrait of
the Prince are called :—

American Polish for a Prince.

Old boss, John Bull, take back your Prince
From our superior nation,

Where he has been, for some time since,
Completin’ education.

I calculate, though Wales is young,

He’s gathered many a wrinkle,

And when you hear his polished tongue,

7.—A FANCY PORTRAIT OF THE PRINCE OF WALES ON HIS RETURN FROM
THE UNITED STATES IN i860.

8 .—MR. DU MAURIER’s FIRST PUNCH-
PICTURE. OCTOBER 6, i860.

Expect your eyes will twinkle !
Yankee doodle, etc.
*****

Etc. etc., etc.

No. 8 is George du Maurier’s
first Punch-^ictmt, published
October 6, i860. This picture
has little worth, either in its
drawing or in its joke, but it has
great interest for us because it is
the first of the great number of
contributions to Punch by Du
Maurier, and because there is
such immense difference be¬
tween this rather poor sketch
and the brilliant work for Punch
that the most of us associate
with the name Du Maurier.

Du Maurier was twenty-six
years of age when this first
picture by him was published in
i860, and as one looks at it,
one can scarcely realize that the
artist who drew No. 8 was des¬
tined to be, with Leech, Tenniel,
and Keene, one of the four
world-famous artists whose work
built up the artistic reputation
of Punch. Henceforward, for
thirty-six years, we see Du
Maurier’s work in Punch.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

422

THE WEATHER AND THE STREETS.-1860.

Hoy of He Period. "Go it, Tom «i' Taiai’a so Tem-ict. and mt Old G«*t imm to coot or

g. —BY LEECH. 1861.

No. 9 is very
good. Leech
has put into it
life and move¬
ment, and one
realizes com¬
pletely the awk¬
ward position of
the old gentle¬
man peeping
out, as one of
the urchins says
to the others,
who are pelting
the old gentle¬
man with snow¬
balls and sliding
in front of his
house : “ Go it, Tommy !
There’s no Perlice, and the
Old Gent’s afraid to come
out! ”

The contest between two
rival omnibus conductors
for a “ fare ” is amusingly
illustrated in No. io ; and
the cartoon in No. n is
specially good.

Lord Palmerston (Prime
Minister in 1861) is playing
“ Beggar My Neighbour ”
with. Napoleon III., and
the cards held by ‘each
player represent warships
built or building in the
year 1861. The Emperor
of the French has just
played his card GLOIRE ,
and Palmerston covers it
with his card WARRIOR ,
saying, as he shows the

SOUR

OrrosiTIOM CiD (»ft«r u »*-—ggV- hr th»

GRAPES.”

•tout Ftrr). " t

‘ Ya . ... h! Take your fat 'un!"

card, “ Is not your Majesty tired of
this foolish game ? ”

The facial expression of both
men is very cleverly given, and we
get here another excellent example
of the famous Palmerston-straw, to
which I alluded last month as indi¬
cating the alertness and cool imper¬
turbability of the popular statesman,
who is here making Napoleon III.

“ sit up.” A clever bit of this
cartoon is the introduction of the
two bags of money from which the
players draw — Palmerston’s bag
being marked “ sovs.” and
Napoleon’s bag “ francs.”

At the present time, France
gives her State-
finance in
francs, we give
ours in pounds
sterling, and this
difference of
statement cer¬
tainly imparts to
the French
Budget an im¬
portance not
possessed by our
estimates. For
example, the
Navy Estimates
of the two coun¬
tries for the year
1861. 1897-98 were

! Tale yovr fat 'vu / M

IT.—A GAME AT BUILDING WAR-SHIPS, PLAYED BY LORD PALMERSTON AND
NAPOLEON III. IN l86l.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

423

France .284 ,795 > 5 °° francs.

United Kingdom ... ^22,338,000 sterling.

Here, despite France’s important¬
looking array of figures, her amount
given above is only worth just about
one-half of our much less important¬
looking Navy Estimate now quoted
in pounds sterling.

We see in No. 12 the cliffs of Dover,
with the coast of France just
visible across the Channel. Mr. Punch
hands to Lord Palmerston the staff of
the Constable of Dover, saying to the
newly-appointed Constable: “There’s
your Staff, Pam. You know the Party
you’re to keep )^our eye on.”

THE CONSTABLE OF DOVER.

"Tnm‘a took Btaitt, Pam. Too mtow rug Pabtt Yoo’ms to tup tou*

T 4 - A reminiscence ok wilkie collins’s novel,
“the woman in white.” by leech. 1861.

Wilkie Collins’s novel “ The
Woman in White” was very
popular when No. 14 was
published. Readers of this book
will remember that it is rather
ghostly, and Leech shows to us
the terror of Mr. Tomkins,
who has been sitting up late
reading this novel, when a- real
“woman in white” suddenly
appears, and says, “ Pray, Mr.
Tomkins, are you Never coming
Upstairs ? How much longer are

12 .—LORD PALMERSTON AS CONSTABLE OF
DOVER IN 1861.

The legend of No. 13 is :— '
Bootmaker (affected to tears) : “ Then
you haven't heard o' the demise 0] 'is S'rene
'pJiness (sob) Count Pummelwitz , Sir;
very old customer of ours , Sir—and when
fuve (sniff) made a Nobleman's Boots so
many years , you feel re'lly like one of the
Pam'ly ! "

13.—THE SYMPATHETIC BOOTMAKER. 1862.

15.—BY DU MAURIER. 1861.

you going to Sit up with that ‘Woman in White’?”

Another of Du Maurier’s early pictures is seen
in No. 15, the legend of which is :—

Mr. Peewit (goaded into reckless action by the impetuous
Mrs. P.): “7 — I —/ shall report you to your Master,

Conductor , for not putting us doivn at the corner -”

Conductor : ‘ c Lor' bless ycr 'art, Sir , it ain't my Plaster as
I'm afeard on ! I'm like you—it's my MISS CIS / 55

424

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

THE GERMAN FLEET.

Mx. Puxcn (to Skill Giriux). " TILE HE'S A SHIP FOR YOU, MY LITTLE MAN-NOW CUT AWAY, AND DON’T
GET IN A MESS.’*

l 6 .—THE BEGINNING OF THE GERMAN NAVY. l 36 l.

Here again, we who are accustomed to l)u
Maurier’s style in his Punch -drawings of
more recent years than 1861 (when No. 15
was published) feel something like a shock
of surprise to see his signature in the left
corner of this amusing sketch, which is so
entirely different from those later pictures,
playfully satirical rather than funny, and in
which a prominent trait is the expression of
their author’s
great love of
beauty—a quality
that is happily
possessed in a
great degree by
Du Maurier’s
brilliant successor
in Punch's “social”
pictures: Mr.

Bernard Part-
ridge, whose
delightful work
will, one hopes, for
a long while con¬
tinue to enrich Mr.

Punch’s pages.

The cartoon in

No. 16, published in 1861, marks
the birth of the German Navy. It
is very funny. Look at the small
German to whom Mr. Punch is
giving a ship, with the remark,
“There’s a ship for you, my little
man — now cut away, and don’t
get in a mess.”

This was before Bismarck had
“made ’’Germany, and in 1861
Germany did not rank as she now
ranks among the European Powers.
Hence Punch's amusing but rather
contemptuous verses which face
this cartoon of October 19, 1861:—

THE GERMAN FLEET.

(To a Little Fatherland Lubber.)

And did the little German erv
I want to have a Fleet ?

A Navy in his little eye ?

Oh, what a grand conceit !

Well; if he’ll promise to be good,

His wish he shall enjoy ;

See here’s a ship cut out of wood :

A proper German toy.

Etc., etc., etc.

Five years later, the Prussians
defeated the Austrians at Sadowa
(3rd July, 1866), arid the “small
German(y)” of our cartoon became,
by this short but momentous war
with Austria, perhaps the foremost
Power in Europe, nearly all
Germany being then united, and
the influence and prestige of Napoleon III.
being thereby greatly impaired.

The “ cackle ” of Du Maurier’s picture in
No. 17 is :—

Nature will Out at Last.
Well-Intentioned but Incautious Stable-Boy (in
temporary disguise), to the restive and plunging
blanc-mange : “ fVo-ko, there! Wo-o-o-o /”

This is a funny picture, and the stable-boy
(acting for the
first time as a
dinner-table-
servant), who is
in difficulties with
the large and
wobbling blanc¬
mange, is speci¬
ally well done.

A remarkable
incident is
mentioned by
Mr. Spielmann
in his “ Plistory
of Punch ” with
reference to
this picture
No. 17.

17.—BY DU MAURIF.R. l86l.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

))

425

By a curious coincidence, as I have heard
from the lips of a member of one of the
great brewing firms, on the very day before
the appearance of Mr. du Maurier’s drawing
the identical incident had occurred in his
own house, and it was hard to believe on
the following morning [when No. 17 was
published.—J.H.S.] that the subject of his
plunging blanc-mange, • similarly apostro¬
phized, had not been imported by some sort
of magic into Punch's page.

VULCAN ARMING NEPTUNE.

* 9 *— THE INVENTION OF IRONCLAD WAR-SHI r> S. 1862.

PLEASANT-VERY!

Ewracxd Tradesman (knocked up at 3 «.m.) " What do you mean, Sir, by mating
t/us disturbance at this time o’ night; breaking peoples' night's rest I"

Inebriated Wanderer. “ BusK— oh/ — You’re got a bite I ShlriJce him hard.
Vag—ni/shnt Jish, shever-Ishee—’pon my word an honour/“

‘What

l8.—THE FISHING-TACKLE SHOP. 1862.

The legend of No. 18 is : —

Pleasant—Very !

Enraged Tradesman (knocked up at 3 a.m.
do you mean , Sir, by. making this disturbance at this
time o' night; breaking peoples' night's rest?"

Inebriated Wanderer: “ Hush — oh! — You've got
a bite ! Shtrike him hard. Mag — nifshnt Jish,
shever —/— shee—'pon my word an' honour !"

The hanging
fish, the sign of
the fishing-tackle
shop, which
attracted the
notice of this
Inebriated Wan¬
derer, still hangs,

I believe, where
it did in r86i
when this joke
was published.

The coming
of the British
ironclad war-ship
is depicted in
No. 19. Brawny
John Bull stands
firm as Neptune,

Vol. xvii. -54.

the sea-god, while Vulcan, the fire-god who is the
patron of all who work in metals, arms Neptune with
his iron plates. Mermaids put the iron crown
on Neptune’s head.

This cartoon was published in 1862, only
thirty-seven years ago, and yet since that
time our Navy has more than once been
entirely remodelled from the primitive form
of ironclads, whose advent is so well impressed

upon us of to-day
by this Punch-
cartoon of April
19, 1862.

No. 20 is a
funny drawing
by Leech of a
Frenchman, who
does not quite
understand Eng¬
lish hunting :—
Dis t i n guished
Foreigner (who docs
not comprehend why
a f/ost should stop
hounds)’. “Aha! no
Mont zis Morning —

A HUNTING APPOINTMENT.-VIVE LE SPORT AGAIN I Dj eu ! _ Zell

zare is no Dog's

2o.— by leech. 1862. Meet to-day ! ”

426

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

PlaTCOIR. •' Twopence I Oh/ then I won l have a hill; I've only got a penny."
Bot. “ Then pray don't mention it, Sir. Never mind the heztra penny. / respects
genteel poverty."

The patent extinguisher, shown
in No. 21, is certainly effective in
its application to the preacher, who
is seen in full swing at 12.30 by the
clock on the front of the pulpit, and
who, two hours later, has received
the hint to stop, given by the auto¬
matic descent of the extinguisher.

The Playgoer in No. 22 says to
the boy selling playbills :—

“ Twopence? Oh! then I won't have a
bill; Fve only got a penny,\ "

22.—THE POLITE PLAYBILL-BOY. 1862.

temperance-med¬
allist of 1863:—
Cabby : “ This
zvon't do, Sir; it's a
Temperance Medal;

‘ taint a Shillin'. "
Intoxicate: “Good
s'shillns' zvorth of
shilver; no further
iishe t'me. Cabby!"

The legend of
No. 24 is:—

Ancient Mariner
(to Browne, who has
just arrived by the
Steamer and had
quite enough of it) :
“ Nice Rozv or Sail
this evening; Sir ? "
Look at the old
gentleman’s face
in No. 25—the

Boy : “ Then pray don't mention it.

Sir. Never mind the hextra penny. I
respects genteel poverty."

No. 23 refers to the backsliding of a

24.—1862.

expression of timorous and fearful expectancy is well
shown. The small print below the picture reads
Burglars !—“ Yes, there are two of 'em, if not three, by the
Footsteps, and one of'em is Blowing into the Keyhole now."

Cabby. " This won't do, Sir ; it's a Temperance Medal; ’tevimt a Shillin’."

I s toxi.-aTK. "(.W sshillin' worth of shilver tin further u-hc fmc Cabby/"

21.—AN INVENTION FOR STOPPING LONG
SERMONS. 1862.

PATENT PULPITS.

""amosgst tie many beautiful things which the Exhibition contains, I no turpmed
hat none of the critic. should bate called the attention of the Public to an exquuutclj carted
’olpit. Thu rtoiMoeia 00 their part la more surprising, because it seema to hate been
xpreasly constructed in order to carry out the tie., of those S« ll «* n /°j£S

W« about the impropriety of long sermons. Abote it it suapeuded a beautifully formed
itingiusher. Now although the Catalogue doea not say to (catalogue, are ao eery meagre
-1 their daacripliona I hope the ncit one published will change all that) 1 feel continued th.
■ere must be meclincry inaide. which will cauae the extinguisher to Ml at tho proper
iOment: that ia to sat. when the patience of the congregation la exhansted. although then

1 large number of order, from

r.oment; that ia to say, wben the patience 01 me <
dels of propriety may compel them to retain their
" 1 trust tbit your insertion of this will ensure the inti
netropolitaa congregations before he leases the country.

23.— A BACKSLIDER. 1863.

23—A FALSE ALARM. 1002.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

427

In Volume XLIV., covering the
first half of the year 1863, Mr.
Punch commenced a series of
“ Nursery Rhymes (To be con¬
tinued until every Town in the
Kingdom has been immortalised) ”

NURSERY RHYMES.

( To be continued until every Town in ihe Kingdom hat been immortalized.)

Thbre was a Young Lady of Ayr,

And she had such very long hair.

When she crossed the Auld Brig,

People said “It’s a wig.

Which no sponsible lassie would wear."

There was & Young Lady of Crawley,

Who said “as the.weather is squally,

I ’ll stop at home, snug,

And lie here on the rug.

And quietly read Lonn MacaVlay."

Therp was a Young Lady of Denbigh,

Who wrote to her confidante, “ N.B.

I don’t mean to try
To be married, not I,

But where can the eyes of the men be ?

There was a Young Lady of Surrey,

Who always would talk m a hurry,

Being called by her Pa,

She replied “Here I are.”

Agd he said, “ Go and read Lendust Mueray.’’

26.— ONE OF A SERIES OF NONSENSE VERSES BY
MR. PUNCH. 1863.

and one of these, relating to the
town of Ayr, is reproduced in
No. 26.

No. 27 gives us an idea of the

Railway Pobtir. " Dog) not allowed ituitle Ihe Carriage*, Sir / ’

Countrthak. « Hhal not a little Tony Tarrierl Wall, Due V letter tal‘ un oot
then, young Man / " _

27.—A POSER FOR THE RAILWAY PORTER. 1863.

28.— THE DISCOVERY OF THE SOURCE OF THE NILE. BY TENNIEL, 1863.

BRITANNIA DISCOVERING THE SOURCE OF THE NILE.

Bmtiwu. "AHA. MU HILL'S 1 TO I'VE FOUND YOU AT LAST! 1 ’

railway carriages of 1863 ; notice the little window
high up in the door. The wording is :—

Railway Porter: “ Dogs not allowed inside the Carriages , Sir!”
Countryman : “ What not a little Tooy Tar Her ? Wall , thee'd
belter tali un oot then, young Alan.”

Tenniel’s cartoon in No. 28 records the discovery of
the source of the Nile; it is a cleverly conceived draw¬
ing, and the expression of Mr. Nilus, as Britannia pulls
aside the rushes and looks at him in his quiet and

Old Ladt (wntMully, tut with .lljultj, to tie CoMtabU't «*nd»lou» iugseitioul " tt't notlu-.^ a/the kind, P'liceman, that Ian i
. IU l lia\t nn/ertunntrln r .tangled CTy/x* in my Crinoline, and can t net it cut! "

2 9- • • • • fix nothing of the kind, P'liceman, tiiat I can assure you ,

but I have unfortunately entangled my foot in my Crinoline, and cant
get it out!" 1863.

shady retreat, is particularly good. This was published
June 6, 1863, it having been announced at a meeting
of the Royal Geographical Society on May 25, 1863,
that “ the Nile was Settled.” And, in 1864, was
published the book, “ What Led to the Discovery of
the Source of the Nile,” by Captain John Speke,
the African explorer.

No. 29 is rather funny. A piece of the crinoline
which has caused the policeman’s scandalous

428

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

PB0FESBI05A1 BECIPEOCITt.

CocHTr.T PaMOK. * Robin*, I'm terry I don't ucycniut Church mart regularly."
CoKscromors Botchib. " Well, Sir, / bum* a* 1 did ought to come to Church
of tour than I doe*— the lot* o' meat you ha* o'mi."

In No. 32 the Omnibus Conductor says'to
the “ swell ” walking alongside
‘ ‘ Vitechapel or Mile End, Sir ? ”

(Swell takes no notice of the insult.)

Conductor : “Deaf and Bums 5 Or spit al. Sir? ”

A smart conductor this, but not a bit more
smart than many of the present-day generation
of omnibus men, although I fancy the intro¬
duction of the garden - seat on the top of
omnibuses has to some extent lessened the
activity in roadside repartee of the omnibus
driver, for he no longer has sitting on each side
of him (as in the days of the box-seat omnibus)
one or two passengers to whom the driver looks
for special appreciation of his smartness in
repartee. At any rate, the following incident
happened to me lately, and the hansom-cab¬
man who scored the point did so without a shot
fired back by the driver of my omnibus.

30.—1863.

suggestion is shown with the poor
old lady’s foot well through it.

The illustration of “ Professional
Reciprocity” in No. 30 is really very
natural, and it was based, probably,
upon real life, as are so many of the
jokes in Punch . The Country Par¬
son says to the butcher, “ Robins,

LaDT. " TTfoJ cm earth, Mary, have you been doing \oilh that Deg ; A/ if Dripping xeiih
Water 1"

Mart. n It all Master Tom ; fu ’# bun and tied him to the md of a Pole, and cleaned the
Winder* unlh him."

31.—1863.

I’m sorry I don’t see you at Church
more regularly.” The Conscientious
Butcher replies, “Well, Sir, I knows
as I did ought to come to Church
oftener than I does—the lots o’ meat
you has o’ me.”

The legend of No. 31 is :—

Lady : “ What on earth, Mary, have you
been doing with that Dog; he is Dripping
with Water?”

Mary : “ If s all Master Tom ; lids been
and tied him to the end of a Pole, and
cleaned the Winders with him ! ”

One rather cold day in the autumn I was on the
outside of a Brompton omnibus sitting on the garden-
seat just behind the driver—I was without an over¬
coat and felt rather cold and, I dare say, looked cold.

THE NOISY BURGLAR, OR THE CAT AND THE MILK-JUG.

OU f<n iiml.toiutu). " Till hi 1* Cai»ot, Pouctxm, Tilt pm is Cnmoil* (.V B. TKt C.U is it a lohrMc fix at it u )

33.— BY R. T. PRITCHETT. T864.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

429

There was a block at Earl’s Court,
and a hansom pulled up just by us.
The cabman glanced up at me and
then, with a nod of his head to the
driver of my omnibus, remarked,
“Say, Bill, you’ve got some ’ungry
’uns up there.”

It was distinctly smart, but, as I
say, the omnibus driver let the quip
pass without a counter-stroke of
repartee, and as I did not know
what to say, the cabman scored, and
whipped up his horse, while my

A STREET FIGHT.

Wifi of hit Dutium (to VanquisJud Hero). " Tcrzncs, tr great UmuaOawn
WB.T DO TER CIT IRTO THIS TlinDIIDLK TOR T ”

Yanquith/d Hero (to Wife of hi* Itvssum). " D'tr CALL rr TrrORDLE. row
wht, itN K.sgtemektI" _

34.— THE LAST PICTURE BV JOHN LEECH.

NOVEMBER 5, 1864.

fellow-passengers sniggered at my
expense—that’s why I suggest that
the present-day omnibus driver is
not so smart as he was in the year
1863, when No. 32 was published.

No. 33 shows a cat in a difficulty,
who has been mistaken for a
burglar.

No. 34 is the last picture by John
Leech. Although there are in this
part of “A Peep into Punch ” two or
three other drawings by Leech (Nos.
35 and 37) which, for convenience,
are here printed later than this
No. 34, these other pictures were
published in Punch earlier than this
last picture, which was in the issue
for November 5, 1864; John Leech
died October 29, 1864, at the early
age of forty-six, just a week before
No. 34 was published in Punch .

Up to the last, as we see by
looking at this- picture of the

Fan (vho hat driven rather a hard bargain end it ttUlinj). "Err wm, jit good bar. do toc put that Cloth over rn* HoRJt't head*"
Cab-Driver. " Hum, tfr Hohocr, trix—I shouldn't lie t mu to net now little te pat r«n irra a hard dat'« worre • "

35. —BY LEECH. 1864.

fighting Irishman, Leech put life and actuality
into his work, and when he died it was predicted
that Leech’s death would be the death of Punch —so
closely was he associated in the public mind with the
rise and growth of Punch , since he joined the paper in
its first Volume. Leech’s first drawing was published
in the fourth number of Punch , August 7, 1841 ; I
showed this first picture by Leech in Part I. of this
article, and now we have his last picture, twenty-
three years later.

THE FIGHT AT ST. STEPHEN’S ACADEMY.

Mrs. Camp. “ NEVER IflND, MY DEAR! YOU DONE YER WERRY BEST TO WIN ; WIIICH THAT MASTER
GLADSTING IS SUCH A I 1 UNC 0 MM 0 N STRONG BOY"*

36. —BY TENNIEL. 1864.

43 °

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

Cousin Florence. “ Will, Tohut, and so too liei tour little friend Philip
do too; amo how old do too think oi xst"

Tommy. " Well, I don't xial-tlt know; dot I ihoold toink dx was turnti
Old, for he Blows his o.r.v jfloss f" _

37.—liY LEECH. 1864.

The words below No. 35 are :—

Fare (who has driveti rather a hard
bargain and is settling) : “ But why, my
good man, do you put that Cloth over
the Horse’s head ? ”

Cab-Driver: ‘‘Shure, yer Honour, thin
—I shouldn’t like him to see how little
ye pay for such a hard day’s worrk ! ”

In No: 36 we see the result of a
political fight between Mr. Glad¬
stone and Benjamin Disraeli (after¬
wards Lord Beaconsfield).

INCORRIGIBLE.

Clerical Examiner. “What is toob Mint I"

/ ncorrigible. " Biler, Sir."

Clerical Examiner. “Who rave tou that Name?”
Incorrigible. " Toe Boys /.v ovk Covrt, Sir."

This fight took place over an important matter of
foreign politics in connection with a Dano-German
question which was then to the front. Disraeli, in
Opposition, thought he saw an opportunity of making a
damaging attack upon the Government, and Gladstone'

(then Chancellor
of the Exchequer)
was put up by
Palmerston (the
Premier) to reply
to Disraeli’s on¬
slaught — with
the result so
humorously
shown in No. 36.

No. 37 illus¬
trates a small
boy’s inference
from an observed
fact. In No. 38,
the boy “ Biler ”
replies to the
Clerical Exam¬
iner’s question,
“ Who gave you
that Name ? ”—
“The Boys in our
Court , Sir.”

No. 39 is an
amusing example
of hatters’ etiquette in the matter of the depth of
mourning hat-bands, and No. 40 shows how easily a
foreigner may make a grave mistake as regards the
customs of a country he visits.

Customer. “A Slight Mourning Hat Band, if tou Pulaaf."
Batter. " WbaT Relation, SlR»"

Customer. " Wifi's Uncle."

Bolter. “ Favourite Uncle, Sir l"

Customer. " ’Uh—Well, Yes."

Batter. "Mat I ask, Sir, are tou Mentioned in the Will!"
Customer. "’Ho sucu Luck,"

Batter (to his Assistant, briskly). “Couple o' Inches, John !"

39. —AN AUTHORITY ON MOURNING HAT-BANDS.

1864.

A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING.

foreigner. " Are due r» Vault* or di Cuusca I"

•Pint Porter. - Sss. SIR "

Foreigner. "And Is dea ant Boot in cat I*

H’l'iw Porter. •• Yes, Si*, and to u.ae a old Jo«t, a west Good Boot, too*

[ Purcigner makes a A ’ote oj the peculiar method of Burial m England.

38.— A NATURAL MISTAKE. 1864.

40.— THE WINE-VAULTS UNDER THE CHURCH. 1864.

Note. —In Part I. of this article, published last January, I showed in picture No. 22, “A joke by Thackeray, the point of
which has never been discovered/’ Many readers have sent to me their solutions of this joke by Thackeray—some readers having
backed their emphatic opinions with bets —but as all the solutions received are different, and as they are all possible, this joke must
still be considered unsolved.—J. H. S.

(To be continued

Flilda Wade.

By Grant Allen.

II.—THE EPISODE OF THE GENTLEMAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR

EVERYTHING.

NE day, about those times, I
went round to call on my
aunt, Lady Tepping. And
lest you accuse me of the
vulgar desire to flaunt my
fine relations in your face, I
hasten to add that my poor dear old aunt
is a very ordinary specimen of the common
Army-widow. Her husband, Sir Malcolm,
a crusty old gentleman of the ancient school,
was knighted in Burma, or thereabouts, for a
successful raid upon naked natives, on
something that is called the Shan frontier.
When he had grown grey in the service of
his Queen and country, besides earning him¬
self incidentally a very decent pension, he
acquired gout, and went to his long rest
in Kensal Green Cemetery. He left his
wife with one daughter, and the only pre¬
tence to a title in our otherwise blameless
family.

My cousin Daphne is a very pretty
girl, with those quiet, sedate manners
which often
develop later
in life into
genuine self-
respect and real
depth of char¬
acter. Fools do
not admire her;
they accuse
her of being
“ heavy.” But
she can do with¬
out fools : she
has a fine,
strongly-built
figure, an up¬
right carriage,
a large and
broad forehead,
a firm chin, and
features which,
though well-
marked and
well - moulded,
are yet delicate

in outline and sensitive in expression. Very
young men seldom take to Daphne: she
lacks the desired inanity. But she has mind,
repose, and womanly tenderness. Indeed,
if she had not been my cousin, I almost
think I might once have been tempted to
fall in love with her.

When I reached Gloucester Terrace, on
this particular afternoon, I found Hilda
Wade there before me. She had lunched
at my aunt’s, in fact. It . was her “ day out ”
at St. Nathaniel’s, and she had come round
to spend it with Daphne Tepping. I had
introduced her to the house some time
before, and she and my cousin had struck
up a close acquaintance immediately. Their
temperaments were sympathetic: Daphne
admired Hilda’s depth and reserve, while
Hilda admired Daphne’s grave grace and
self-control, her perfect freedom from current
affectations. She neither giggled, nor aped
Ibsen ism.

A third person stood back in the room

SHE' AND MY COUSIN HAD STRUCK UP A CLOSE ACQUAINTANCE.”

43 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

when I entered—a tall and somewhat jerry-
built young man, with a rather long and
solemn face, like an early stage in the evolu¬
tion of a Don Quixote. I took a good look
at him. There was something about his air
that impressed me as both lugubrious and
humorous : and in this I was right, for I
learned later that he was one of those rare
people who can sing a comic song with
immense success, while preserving a sour
countenance like a Puritan preacher’s. His
eyes were a little sunken, his fingers long
and nervous: but I fancied he looked a
good fellow at heart, for all that, though
foolishly impulsive. He was a punctilious
gentleman, I felt sure; his face and manner
grew upon one rapidly.

Daphne rose as I entered, and waved the
stranger forward with an imperious little
wave: I imagined, indeed, that I detected
in the gesture a faint touch of half-un¬
conscious proprietorship. “ Good morning,
Hubert,” she said, taking my hand, but
turning towards the tall young man. “ I don’t
think you know Mr. Cecil Holsworthy.”

“ I have heard you speak of him,” I
answered, drinking him in with my glance.

I added internally, “Not half good enough
for you.”

Hilda’s eyes met mine and read my
thought. They flashed back word, in the
language of eyes, “I do not agree with
you.”

Daphne, meanwhile, was watching me
closely. I could see she was anxious to
discover what impression her friend Mr. Hols¬
worthy was making on me. Till then, I had
no idea she was fond of anyone in parti¬
cular: but the way her glance wandered
from him to me, and from me to Hilda,
showed clearly that she thought much of
this gawky visitor.

We sat and talked together, we four, for
some time: I found the young man with the
lugubrious countenance improved immensely
on closer acquaintance. His talk was clever.
He turned out to be the son of a politician
high in office in the Canadian Government,
and he had been educated at Oxford : the
father, I gathered, was rich, but he himself
was making an income of nothing a year just
then as a briefless barrister, and he was
hesitating whether to accept a post of secre¬
tary that had been offered him in the colony,
or to continue his negative career at the
Inner Temple, for the honour and glory of it.

“ Now, which would you advise me, Miss
Tepping?” he inquired, after we had dis¬
cussed the matter together some minutes,

Daphne’s face flushed up. “ It is so hard
to decide,” she answered. “To decide to
your best advantage, I mean, of course. For
naturally all your English friends would wish
to keep you as long as possible in England.”

“ No, do you think so?” the gawky young
man jerked out with evident pleasure. “ Now,
that’s awfully kind of you. Do you know,
if you tell me I ought to stay in England,
I’ve half a mind .... Ell cable over this
very day and refuse the appointment.”

Daphne flushed once more. “ Oh, please
don’t,” she exclaimed, looking frightened.

“ I shall be quite distressed if a—a stray
word of mine should debar you from accept¬
ing a good offer of a secretaryship.”

“Why, your least wish-” the young

man began, then checked himself hastily—

“ must be always important,” he went on, in
a different voice, “ to everyone of your ac¬
quaintance.”

Daphne rose hurriedly. “ Look here,
Hilda,” she said, a little tremulously, biting
her lip, “ I have to go out into Westbourne
Grove to get those gloves for to-night, and a
spray for my hair ; will you all excuse me
for half an hour ? ”

Holsworthy rose too. “ Mayn’t I go with
you ? ” he asked, eagerly.

“ Oh, if you like : how very kind of you,”
Daphne answered, her cheek a blush rose.

“ Hubert, will you come too ? and you,
Hilda?”

It was one of those invitations which are
given to be refused. I did not need Hildas
warning glance to tell me that my company
would be quite superfluous : I felt those two
were best left together.

“ It’s no use, though, Dr. Cumberledge ! ”
Hilda put in, as soon as they were gone.
“ He wonI propose, though he has had every
encouragement. I don’t know what’s the
matter; but I’ve been watching them both
for weeks, and somehow things seem never
to get any forwarder.”

“ You think he’s in love with her ? ” I
asked.

“ In love with her! Well, you have eyes
in your head, I know : where could they have
been looking ? He’s madly in love—a very
good kind of love, too : he genuinely admires
and respects and appreciates all Daphne’s
sweet and charming qualities.”

“ Then what do you suppose is the matter?”

“ I have an inkling of the truth : I imagine
Mr. Cecil must have let himself in for a prior
attachment.”

“ If so, why does he hang about Daphne ?”

“Because—he can’t help himself. He’s a'

HILDA

WADE.

433

good fellow, and a chivalrous fellow: he
admires your cousin ; but he must have got
himself into some foolish entanglement else¬
where, which he is too honourable to break
off; while at the same time he’s far too much
impressed by Daphne’s fine qualities to be
able to keep away from her. It’s the
ordinary case of love versus duty.”

“ Is he well off? Could he afford to
marry Daphne ? ”

“ Oh, his father’s very rich : he has plenty
of money. A Canadian millionaire, they

say. That makes it all the likelier that some
undesirable young woman somewhere may
have managed to get hold of him. Just the
sort of romantic, impressionable hobbledehoy
such women angle for.”

I drummed my fingers on the table.
Presently Hilda spoke again. “Why don’t
you try to get to know him, and find out
precisely what’s the matter ? ”

“ I know what’s the matter—now you’ve
told me,” I answered. “ It’s as clear as day.
Daphne is very much smitten with him, too.
I’m sorry for Daphne ! Well, * I’ll take your
advice : I’ll try to have some talk with
him.”

“ Do, please; I feel sure I have hit upon
it. He has got himself engaged in a hurry
to some girl he doesn’t really care about, and
he is far too much of a gentleman to break
it off, though he’s in love quite another way
with Daphne.”

Just at that moment the door opened and
my aunt entered.

“ Why, where’s Daphne ? ” she cried, look-

Vol. jcviii— 55.

ing about her, and arranging her black lace
shawl.

“ She has just run out into Westbourne
Grove to get some gloves and a flower for
the fete this evening,” Hilda answered. Then
she added, significantly, “ Mr. Holsworthy
has gone with her.”

“ What ? That boy’s been here again ? ”

“ Yes, Lady Tepping. He called to see
Daphne.”

My aunt turned to me with an aggrieved
tone. It is a peculiarity of my aunt’s—I
have met it elsewhere—
that if she is angry with
Jones, and Jones is not
present, she assumes a
tone of injured asperity on
his account towards Brown
or Smith or any other
innocent person whom she
happens to be
addressing.
“Now, this is
really too bad,
Hubert,” she
burst out, as if I
were the culprit.
“ Disgraceful!
Abominable !
I’m sure I can’t
make out what
the young fellow
means by it.
Plere he comes
dangling after
Daphne every day and all day long—and
never once says whether he means anything
by it or not. In my young days, such
conduct as that would not have been con¬
sidered respectable.”

I nodded and beamed benignity.

“ Well, why don’t you answer me ? ” my
aunt went on, warming up. “ Do you mean
to tell me you think his behaviour respectful
to a nice girl in Daphne’s position ? ”

“ My dear aunt,” I answered, “ you con¬
found the persons. I am not Mr. Hols¬
worthy. I decline responsibility for him. I
meet him here, in your house, for the first
time this morning.”

“ Then that shows how often you come to
see your relations, Hubert !” my aunt burst
out, obliquely. “ The man’s been here, to
my certain knowledge, every day this' six
weeks.”

“ Really, Aunt Fanny,” I said: “you must
recollect that a professional man-”

“ Oh, yes. That's the way ! Lay it all
down to your profession, do, Hubert !

“ IS HE WELL OFF? ”

434

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

Though I know you were at the Thorntons’
on Saturday—saw it in the papers—the
Morning Post —‘ among the guests were Sir
Edward and Lady Burnes, Professor Sebas¬
tian, Dr. Hubert Cumberledge,’ and so forth,
and so forth. You think you can conceal
these things : but you can’t. I get to know
them ! ”

“ Conceal them ! My dearest aunt! Why,
I danced twice with Daphne.”

“ Daphne ! Yes, Daphne. They all run
after Daphne,” my aunt exclaimed, altering
the venue once more. “ But there’s no
respect for age left. I expect to be neglected.
However, that’s neither here nor there. The
point is this : you’re the one man now living
in the family. You ought to behave like a
brother to Daphne. Why don’t you board
this Holsworthy person and ask him his
intentions ? ”

“Towards my rooms in the Temple.” . ....

“ Oh ! I’m going back to.St. Nathaniel’s,”
I continued. “ If you’ll allow me I’ll walk
part way with you.”

“ How very kind of you ! ”

We strode side by side a little distance in
silence. Then a thought seemed to strike
the lugubrious young man. “ What a charm¬
ing girl your cousin is! ” he exclaimed,
abruptly.

“You seem to think so,” I answered,
smiling.

He flushed a little ; the lantern jaw grew
longer. “ I admire her, of course,” he
answered. “ Who doesn’t ? She is so extra¬
ordinarily handsome.”

“Well, not exactly handsome,” I replied,
with more critical and kinsmanlike delibera¬
tion. “Pretty, if you will; and decidedly
pleasing and attractive in manner.”

WHY DON’T YOU ASK HIM HIS INTENTIONS?”

He looked me up and down, as if he
found me a person singularly deficient in
taste and appreciation. “ Ah, but then,
you are her cousin,” he said at last, with
a compassionate tone, “ That makes a
difference.”

“ I quite see all Daphne’s strong points,”
I answered, still smiling, for I could perceive
he was very far gone. “ She is good-looking,
and she is clever.”

“ Clever ! ” he echoed. “ Profound ! She
has a most unusual intellect. She stands
alone.”

“ Like her mother’s silk dresses,” I mur¬
mured, half under my breath.

He took no notice of my flippant remark,
but went on with his rhapsody. “Such

“ Goodness gracious 1 ” 1 ' cried : “ most
excellent of aunts, that epoch has gone past.
The late lamented Queen Anne is now dead.
It’s no use asking the young man of to-day
to explain his intentions. He will refer you
to the works of the Scandinavian dramatists.”

My aunt was speechless. She could only
gurgle out the words : “ Well, I can safely

say that of all the monstrous behaviour-

then language failed her and she relapsed
into silence.

However, when Daphne and young Hols¬
worthy returned, I had as much talk with
him as I could, and when he left the house
I left also.

“Which way are you walking?” I asked,
as we turned out into the street.

HILDA

WADE.

435

depth; such penetration ! And then, how
sympathetic ! Why, even to a mere casual
acquaintance like myself, she is so kind, so
discerning.”

“ Are you such a casual acquaintance ? ” I
inquired, with a smile. (It might have
shocked Aunt Fanny to hear me : but that
is the way we ask a young man his intentions
nowadays.)

He stopped short and hesitated. “ Oh,
quite casual,” he replied, almost stammering.
“ Most casual, I assure you .... I have
never ventured to do myself the honour of
supposing that .... that Miss Tepping
could possibly care for me.”

“There is such a thing as being .too
modest and unassuming,” I answered. “ It
sometimes leads to unintentional cruelty.”

“ No, do you think so ?” he cried, his face
falling all at once. “ I should blame myself
bitterly if that were so. Ur. Cumberledge,
you are her cousin. Do you gather that I
have acted in such a way as to—to lead Miss
Tepping to suppose. I felt any affection for
her ? ”

“ It is,” I responded, with my best
paternal manner, gazing blankly in front of
me.

He stopped short again. “Look here,”
he said, facing me. “ Are you busy ? No ?
Then come back with me to my rooms,
and—I’ll make a clean breast of it.”

“ By all means,” I assented. “ When one
is young—and foolish, I have often noticed,
as a medical man, that a drachm of clean
breast is a magnificent prescription.”

He walked back by my side, talking all
the way of Daphne’s many adorable quali¬
ties. He exhausted the dictionary for lauda¬
tory adjectives. By the time I reached his
door it was not his fault if I had not
learned that the angelic hierarchy were
not in the running with my pretty cousin
for graces and virtues. I felt that Faith,
Hope, and Charity ought to resign at
once in favour of Miss Daphne Tepping,
promoted.

He took me into his comfortably-furnished
rooms—the luxurious rooms of a rich young
bachelor, with taste as well as money—and

“he sat down opposite me.”

I laughed in his face. “ My dear boy,” I
answered, laying one hand on his shoulder,
“ may I say the plain truth ? A blind bat
could see you are madly in love with her.”

Flis mouth twitched. “That’s very serious,”
he answered, gravely ; “ very serious.”

offered me a partaga. Now, I have long
observed, in the course of my practice, that
a choice cigar assists a man in taking a
philosophic outlook on the question under
discussion : so I accepted the partaga. He
sat down opposite me, and pointed to a

43 6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

photograph in the centre of his mantelpiece.
“ I am engaged to that lady,” he put in,
shortly.

“So I anticipated,” I answered, lighting
up.

He started and looked surprised. “ Why,
what made you guess it ? ” he inquired.

I smiled the calm smile of superior age—
I was some eight years or so his senior.
“My dear fellow,” I murmured, “what else
could prevent you from proposing to
Daphne—when you are so undeniably in
love with her ? ”

“A great deal,” he answered. “For ex¬
ample : the sense of my own utter unworthi¬
ness.”

“ One’s own unworthiness,” I replied,
“though doubtless real—^p’f, p’f—is a
barrier that most of us can readily get over,
when our admiration for a particular lady
waxes strong enough. So this is the prior
attachment! ” I took the portrait down and
scanned it.

“Unfortunately, yes. What do you think
of her ? ”

I scrutinized the features. “ Seems a nice
enough little thing,” I answered. It was an
innocent face, I admit. Very frank and
girlish.

He leaned forward eagerly. “ That’s just
it. A nice enough little thing ! Nothing in
the world to be said against her. While

Daphne—Miss Tepping, I mean-” His

silence was ecstatic.

I examined the photograph still more
closely. It displayed a lady of twenty or
thereabouts, with a weak face, small, vacant
features, a feeble chin, a good-humoured,
simple mouth, and a wealth of golden hair
that seemed to strike a keynote.

“ In the theatrical profession ?” I inquired
at last, looking up.

He hesitated. “ "Well, not exactly,” he
answered.

I pursed my lips and blew a ring. “ Music-
hall stage? ” I went on, dubiously.

He nodded. “ But a girl is not neces¬
sarily any the less a lady because she sings at
a music-hall,” he added, with warmth, dis¬
playing an evident desire to be just to his
betrothed, however much he admired
Daphne.

“ Certainly not,” I admitted. “ A lady is a
lady; no occupation can in itself unladify
her. . . . But on the music-hall stage, the
odds, one must admit, are on the whole
against her.”

“ Now, there you show prejudice ! ”

“ One may be quite unprejudiced,” I

answered, “and yet allow that connection
with the music-halls does not, as such, afford
clear proof that a girl is a compound of all the
virtues.” .

“ I think she’s a good girl,” he retorted,
slowly.

“ Then why do you want to throw her
over? ” I inquired.

“ I don’t. That’s just it. On the contrary,
I mean to keep my word and marry her.”

“ In order to keep your word?” I suggested.

He nodded. “ Precisely. It is a point of
honour.”

“ That’s a poor ground of marriage,” I
went on. “ Mind, I don’t want for a moment
to influence you, as Daphne’s cousin. I want
to get at the truth of the situation. I don’t
even know what Daphne thinks of you. But
you promised me a clean breast. Be a man,
and bare it.”

He bared it instantly. “ I thought I was
in love with this girl, you see,” he went on,
“ till I saw Miss Tepping.”

“ That makes a difference,” I admitted.

“ And I couldn’t bear to break her heart.”

“ Heaven forbid ! ” I cried. “It is the
one unpardonable sin. Better anything than
that.” Then I grew practical. “ Father’s
consent ? ”

“ My father’s ? Is it likely? He expects
me to marry into some distinguished
English family.”

I hummed a moment. “ Well, out with it!”
I exclaimed, pointing my cigar at him.

He leaned back in his chair and told me
the whole story. A pretty girl: golden hair :
introduced to her by a friend : nice simple
little thing: mind and heart above the
irregular stage on to which she had been
driven by poverty alone : father dead:
mother in reduced circumstances : “ to keep
the home together, poor Sissie decided—

“ Precisely so,” I murmured, knocking off
my ash. “The usual self-sacrifice! Case
quite normal ! Everything en regie I ”

“ You don’t mean to say you doubt it?”
he cried, flushing up, and evidently regarding
me as a hopeless cynic. “ I do assure you,
Dr. Cumberledge, the poor child — though
miles, of course, below Miss Tepping’s level
— is as innocent, and as good-”

“ As a flower in May. Oh, yes, I don’t
doubt it. How did you come to propose to
her, though ? ”

He reddened a little. “ Well, it was almost
accidental,” he said, sheepishly. “ I called
there one evening, and her mother had a
headache and went up to bed. And when
we two were left alone, Sissie talked a great

HILDA WADE.

437

*' SHE BROKE DOWN AND BEGAN TO CRY.”

deal about her future, and how hard her life
was. And after a while she broke down and

began to cry. And then-”

I cut him short with a wave of my hand.
“ You need say no more,” I put in, with a
sympathetic face. “We have all been
there.”

We paused a moment, while I puffed
smoke at the photograph again. “Well,” I
said at last, “ her face looks to me really
simple and nice. It is a good face. Do you
see her often ? ”

“ Oh, no ; she’s on tour.”

“In the provinces? ”

“ M’yeS : just at present, at Scarborough.”

“ But she writes to you ? ”

“ Every day.”

u AY ould you think it an unpardonable
impertinence if I made bold to ask whether
it would be possible for you to show me a
specimen of her letters ? ”

He unlocked a drawer and took out three
or four. I lien he read one through, care¬
fully. “I don’t think,” he said, in a
deliberative voice, “it would be a serious
breach of confidence in me to let you look
through this one. There’s really nothing in
it, you know—just the ordinary average every¬
day love-letter.”

I glanced through the little note. He
was right. The conventional hearts-and-
darts . epistle. It sounded nice enough.
Longing to see you again : so lonely in this
place : your dear sweet letter : looking for¬
ward to the time : your ever-devoted Sissie.

“That seems
straight,” I an¬
swered. “ How¬
ever, I am not
quite sure. Will
you allow me to
take it away, with
the photograph ?
I know I am ask¬
ing much. I want
to show it to a
lady in whose tact
and discrimination
I have the greatest
confidence.”

“ What, Da¬
phne ? ”

I smiled. “ No,
not Daphne,” I
answered. “ Our
friend Miss AA ade.
She has extra¬
ordinary insight.”

“ I could trust
anything to Miss AAade. She is true as
steel.”

“You are right,” I answered. “That
shows that you too are a judge of character.”

He hesitated. “ I feel a brute,” he cried,
“to go on writing every day to Sissie
Montague—and yet calling every day to see
Miss Tepping. But still—I do it.”

I grasped his hand. “ My dear fellow,” I
said, “ nearly ninety per cent, of men, after
all—are human ! ”

1 took both letter and photograph back
with me to Nathaniel’s. AVhen I had gone
my rounds that night, I carried them into
Hilda AA^ade’s room, and told her the story.
Her face grew grave. “ AA r e must be just,”
she said, at last. “ Daphne is deeply in love
with him; but even for Daphne’s sake, we
must not take anything for granted against
the other lady.”

I produced the photograph. “AA'hat do
you make of that ? ” I asked. “ I think it
an honest face, myself, I may tell you.”

She scrutinized it long and closely with a
magnifier. 1 hen she put her head on one
side and mused very deliberately. “ Madeline
Shaw gave me her photograph the other day,
and said to me, as she gave it, ‘ I do so like
these modern portraits ; they show one what
might have been. ’ ”

“You mean, they are so much touched
up ! ”

“ Exactly. That, as it stands, is a sweet,
innocent face—an honest girl’s face—almost
babyish in its transparency ; but .... the

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

4 3 8

innocence has all been put into it by the
photographer.”

“ You think so ? ”

“ I know it. Look here at those lines just
visible on the cheek. They disappear,
nowhere, at impossible angles. And the
corners of that mouth. They couldn’t go so,
with that nose and those puckers. The
thing is not real. It has been atrociously
edited. Part is nature’s ; part, the photo¬
grapher’s ; part, even possibly paint and
powder.”

“ But the underlying face ? ”

“ Is a minx’s.”

I handed her the letter. “ This next ?” I
asked, fixing my eyes on her as she looked.

She read it through. For a minute or two
she examined it. “ The letter is right
enough,” she answered, after a second read¬
ing, “ though its guileless simplicity is per¬
haps, under the circumstances, just a leetle
overdone; but the handwriting—the hand¬
writing is duplicity itself: a cunning, ser¬
pentine hand : no openness or honesty in it.
Depend upon it, that girl is playing a double
game.”

“ You believe, then, there is character in
handwriting ? ”

“ Undoubtedly; when we know the cha¬
racter, we can see it in the writing. The
difficulty is, to see it and read it before we
know it : and I have practised a
little at that. There is character in
all we do, of course—our walk, our
cough, the very wave of our hands :
the only secret is, not all of us have
always skill to see it. Here, how¬
ever, I feel pretty sure. The curls
of the g’s and the tails of the y’s—
how full they are of wile, of low,
underhand trickery ! ”

I looked at them as she pointed.

“ That is true ! ” I exclaimed. “ I
see it when you show it. Lines
meant for effect. No straightness
or directness in them S ”

Hilda reflected a moment. “ Poor
Daphne,” she murmured. “ I would

do anything to help her.I’ll

tell what might be a- good plan.”

Her face brightened. “ My holiday
comes next week. I’ll run down to
Scarborough—it’s as nice a place for
a holiday as any—and I’ll observe
this young lady. It can do no harm
—and good may come of it.”

“ How kind of you ! ” I cried.

“ But you are always all kindness.”

Hilda went to Scarborough, and

came back again for a week before going on
to Bruges, where she proposed to spend the
greater part of her holidays. She stopped a
night or two in town to report progress, and
finding another nurse ill, promised to fill
her place till a substitute was forthcoming.
“ Well, Dr. Cumberledge,” she said, when
she saw me alone, “ I was right ! I have
found out a fact or two about Daphne’s
rival! ”

“You have seen her ? ” I asked.

“ Seen her ? I have stopped for a week
in the same house. A very nice lodging-
house on the Spa front, too. The girl’s well
enough off. The poverty plea fails. _ She
goes about in good rooms, and carries a
mother with her.”

“That’s well,” I answered. “That looks
all right.”

“ Oh, yes, she’s quite presentable : has the
manners of a lady—whenever she chooses.
But the chief point is this : she laid her
letters every day on the table in the passage
outside her door for post—laid them all in a
row, so that when one claimed one’s own one
couldn’t help seeing them.”

“Well, that was open and above-board, ’ I
continued, beginning to fear we had hastily
misjudged Miss Sissie Montague.

“Very open—too much so, in fact; for I
was obliged to note the fact that she wrote

TO MY TWO MASHES, SHE EXPLAINED.

HILDA WADE .

439

two letters regularly every day of her life—
‘to my two mashes,’ she explained one
afternoon to a young man who was with her
as she laid them on the table. One of them
was always addressed to Cecil Holsworthy,
Esq.”

“ And the other ? ”

“ Wasn’t.”

“ Did you note the name ? ” I asked,
interested.

“ Yes ; here it is.” She handed me a slip
of paper.

I read it: “ Reginald Nettlecraft, Esq.,
427, Staples Inn, London.”

“ What, Reggie Nettlecraft ! ” I cried,
amused. “Why, he
was a very little boy
at Charterhouse
when I was a big
one; he afterwards
went to Oxford and
got sent down from
Christ Church for
the part he took in
burning a Greek
bust in Tom Quad
—an antique Greek
bust—after a bump
supper.”

“ Just the sort of
man I should have
expected,” Hilda
answered, with a
suppressed smile.

“ I have a sort of
inkling that Miss
Montague likes him
best; he is nearer
her type; but she
thinks Cecil Hols¬
worthy the better
match. Has Mr.

Nettlecraft money?”

“Not a penny, I
should say. An
allowance from his
father, perhaps, who
is ,a Lincolnshire
parson ; but other¬
wise, nothing.”

“Then, in my opinion, the young lady is
playing for Mr. Holsworthy’s money; failing
which, she will decline upon Mr. Nettlecraft’s
heart.”

We talked it all over. In the end, I said
abruptly, “Nurse Wade, you have seen Miss
Montague, or whatever she calls herself. I
have not. I won’t condemn her unheard.

I have half a mind to run down one day

next week to Scarborough and have a look
at her.”

“ Do. That will suffice. You can judge
then for yourself whether or not I am mis¬
taken.”

I went; and what is more, I heard Miss
Sissie sing at her hall—a pretty domestic
song, most childish and charming. She
impressed me not unfavourably, in spite of
what Hilda said. Her peach-blossom cheek
might have been art, but looked like nature.
She had an open face, a baby smile; and
there was a frank girlishness about her dress
and manner that took my fancy. “After
all,” I thought to myself, “even Hilda Wade
is fallible.”

So that evening,
when her “ turn ”
was over, I made
up my mind to go
round and call upon
her. I had told
Cecil Holsworthy
my intentions before¬
hand, and it rather
shocked him. He
was too much of a
gentleman to wish
to spy upon the girl
he had promised to
marry. However, in
my case, there need
be no such scruples.

I found the house,
and asked for Miss
Montague. As I
mounted the stairs
to the drawing-room
floor, I heard a
sound of voices —
the murmur of
laughter: idiotic guf¬
faws, suppressed gig¬
gles, the masculine
and feminine varie¬
ties of tomfoolery.

“ You'd make a

MOST CHILDISH AND CHARMING.”

splendid woman of
business, you
would ! ” a young
man was saying. I gathered from his drawl
that he belonged to that sub-species of the
human race which is known as the Chappie.

“ Wouldn’t I just ? ” a girl’s voice answered,
tittering: I recognised it as Sissie’s. “You
ought to see me at it 1 Why, my brother set
up a place once for mending bicycles ; and
I used to stand about at the door, as if I
had just returned from a ride : and when

440

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

fellows came in
with a nut loose
or something, I’d
begin talking with
them while Bertie
tightened it. Then,
when they weren’t
looking, I’d dab
the business end of
a darning - needle,
so, just plump
into their tyres ;
and of course, as
soon as they went off, they
were back again in*a minute
to get a puncture mended !

I call that business.”

A roar of laughter greeted
the recital of this brilliant
incident in a commercial
career. As it subsided, I
entered. There were two
men in the room, besides
Miss Montague and her
mother, and a second young
lady.

“ Excuse this late call,” I
said, quietly, bowing. “ But
I have only one night in
Scarborough, Miss Montague,
and I wanted to see you.

I’m a friend of Mr. Hols-

worthy’s. I told him I’d look you up, and

this is my sole opportunity.”

I felt rather than saw that Miss Montague
darted a quick glance of hidden meaning at
her friends the chappies: their faces, in
response, ceased to snigger, and grew in¬
stantly sober.

She took my card : then, in her alternative
manner as the perfect lady, she presented
me to her mother. “ Dr. Cumberledge,
mamma,” she said, in a faintly warning
voice. “ A friend of Mr. Holsworthy’s.”

The old lady half rose. “Let me see,”
she said, staring at me. “ Which is Mr.
Holsworthy, Siss ?—is it Cecil or Reggie ? ”

One of the chappies burst into a fatuous
laugh once more at this remark. “Now,
you’re giving away the whole show, Mrs.
Montague ! ” he exclaimed, with a chuckle.
A look from Miss Sissie immediately checked
him.

I am bound to admit, however, that after
these untoward incidents of the first minute,
Miss Montague and her friends behaved
throughout with distinguished propriety. Her
manners were perfect—I may even say,
demure. She asked about “ Cecil ” with

I USED TO STAND ABOUT AT THE DOOR.

charming naivete. She was frank and girlish.
Lots of innocent fun in her, no doubt—she
sang us a comic song in excellent taste,
which is a severe test—-but not a. suspicion
of double-dealing. If I had not overheard
those few words as I came up the stairs, I
think I should have gone away believing the
poor girl an injured child of nature.

As it was, I went back to London the
very next day, determined to renew my
slight acquaintance with Reggie Nettlecraft.

Fortunately, I had a good excuse for
going to visit him. I had been asked to
collect among old Carthusians for one of
those endless “ testimonials ” which pursue
one through life, and are, perhaps, the worst
nemesis which follows the crime of having
wasted one’s youth at a public school: a
testimonial for a retiring master, or profes¬
sional cricketer, or washerwoman, or some¬
thing ; and in the course of my duties as
collector, it was quite natural that I should
call upon all my fellow-victims. So I went
to his rooms in Staples Inn and re-introduced
myself.

Reggie Nettlecraft had grown up into an
unwholesome, spotty, indeterminate young

HILDA WADE.

441

man, with a speckled necktie, and cuffs of
which he was inordinately proud, and which
he insisted on “ flashing ” every second
minute. He was also evidently self-satisfied,
which was odd, for I have seldom seen
anyone who afforded less cause for rational
satisfaction. “ Hullo,” he said, when I told
him my name. “ So it’s you, is it, Cumber-
ledge?” He glanced at my. card. “St.
Nathaniel’s Hospital! What rot ! Why,
blow me tight if you haven’t turned saw¬
bones ! ”

“That is my profession,” I answered, un¬
ashamed. “ And you ? ”

“ Oh, I don’t have any luck, you know,
old man. They turned me out of Oxford
because I had too much sense of humour
for the authorities there—beastly set of old
fogeys ! Objected to my £ chucking ’ oyster-
shells at the tutors’ windows—good old
English custom, fast becoming obsolete.
Then I crammed for the Army: but, bless
your heart, a gentleman has no chance for
the Army nowadays: a pack of blooming-
cads, with what they call ‘intellect,’ read up
for the exams., and don’t give us a look-in ;
I call it sheer piffle. Then the Guv’nor
set me on electrical engineering—electrical
engineering’s played out—I put no stock in
it; besides, it’s such beastly fag; and then,
you get your hands dirty. So now I’m
reading for the Bar, and if only my coach
can put me up to tips enough to dodge the
examiners, I expect to be called some time
next summer.”

“ And when you have failed for every¬
thing?” I inquired, just to test his sense of
humour.

He swallowed it like a roach. “ Oh, when
I’ve failed for everything, I shall stick up to
the Guv’nor. Hang it all, a gentleman can’t
be expected to earn his own livelihood.
England’s going to the dogs, that’s where it
is : no snug little sinecures left for chaps like
you and me : all this beastly competition.
And no respect for the feelings of gentlemen,
either ! Why, would you believe it, Cumber-
ground -we used to call you Cumberground
at Charterhouse, I remember, or was it
Fig Tree?—I happened to get a bit lively
in the Haymarket last week, after a rattling
good supper, and the chap at the police-
court—old cove with a squint—positively
proposed to send me to prison, without the
option of a fine ! —I’ll trouble you for that—
send me to prison just for knocking down
a common brute of a bobby. There’s no
mistake about it, England’s not a country
now for a gentleman to live in.”

Vol. xvii. — 56.

. “ Then why not mark your sense of the
fact by leaving it ? ” I inquired, with a smile.

He shook his head. “What? Emigrate?
No, thank you ! I’m not taking any. None
of your colonies for me , if you please. I
shall stick to the old ship. I’m too much
attached to the Empire.”

“And yet imperialists,” I said, “generally
gush over the colonies—the Empire on
which the sun never sets.”

“ The Empire in Leicester Square ! ” he
responded, gazing at me with unspoken con¬
tempt. “ Have a whisky and soda, old
chap ? What, no ? ‘ Never drink between

meals ? ’ Well, you do surprise me! I
suppose that comes of being a sawbones,
don’t it ? ”

“Possibly,” I answered. “We respect
our livers.” Then I went on to the osten¬
sible reason of my visit—the Charterhouse
testimonial. He slapped his thighs meta¬
phorically, by way of suggesting the depleted
condition of his pockets. “ Stony broke,
Cumberledge,” he murmured ; “stony broke !
Honour bright ! Unless Bluebird pulls off
the Prince of Wales’s Stakes, I realiy don’t
know how I’m to pay the Benchers.”

“ It’s quite unimportant,” I answered. “ I
was asked to ask you, and I have asked you.”

“ So I twig, my dear fellow. Sorry to have
to say no. But I’ll tell you what I can do
for you: I can put you upon a straight
thing-”

I glanced at the mantelpiece. “ I see you
have a photograph of Miss Sissie Montague,”

I broke in casually, taking it down and
examining it. “ With an autograph, too.

‘ .Reggie, from Sissie.’ You are a friend of
hers ? ”

“ A friend of hers ? I’ll trouble you. She
is a clinker, Sissie is ! You should see that
girl smoke. I give you my word of honour,
Cumberledge, she can consume cigarettes
against any fellow I know in London. Hang
it all, a girl like that, you know—well, one
can’t help admiring her ! Ever seen her ? ”

“ Oh, yes ; I know her. I called on her,
in fact, night before last at Scarborough.”

He whistled a moment, then broke into
an imbecile laugh. “ My gum,” he cried,

“ this is a start, this is ! You don’t mean to
tell me you are the other Johnnie ?”

“What other Johnnie ?” I asked, feeling
we were getting near it.

He leaned back and laughed again. “ Well,
you know that girl Sissie, she’s a clever one,
she is,” he went on after a minute, staring at
me. “ She’s a regular clinker! Got two
strings to her bow: that’s where the trouble

44 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ONE CAN’T HELP ADMIRING HER.”

comes in : Me, and another fellow. She
likes Me for love, and the other fellow for
money. Now, don’t you come and tell me
that you are the other fellow.”

“ I have certainly never aspired to the
young lady’s hand,” I answered, cautiously.
“ But don’t you know your rival’s name,
then ? ”

“ That’s Sissie’s blooming cleverness. She’s
a caulker, Sissie is : you don’t take a rise out
of Sissie in a hurry. She knows that if I
knew who the other bloke was, I’d blow
upon her little game to him, and put him off
her. And I ivould , s’ep me taters : for I’m
nuts on that girl: I tell you, Cumberledge,
she is a clinker ! ”

“ You seem to me admirably adapted for
one another,” I answered, truthfully. I had
not the slightest compunction in handing
Reggie Nettlecraft over to Sissie, nor in
handing Sissie over to Reggie Nettlecraft.

“ Adapted for one another ? That’s just it.
There, you hit the right nail plump on the
cocoa-nut, Cumberground ! But Sissie’s an
artful one, she is. She’s playing for the other
Johnnie. He’s got the dibs, you know ;
and Sissie wants the dibs even more than
she wants yours truly.”

“ Got what ? ” I inquired, not quite catch¬
ing the phrase.

“ The dibs, old man ; the chink ; the oof;
the ready rhino. He rolls in it, she says. I
can’t find out the chap’s name, but I know

his Guv’nor’s something or other in the
millionaire trade somewhere across in
America.”

“ She writes to you, I think ? ”

“ That’s so : every blooming day : but how
the dummy did you come to know it? ”

“She lays letters addressed to you on the
hall table at her lodgings in Scarborough.”

“ The dickens she does ! Careless little
beggar! Yes, she writes to me—pages.
She’s awfully gone on me, really. She’d
marry me if it wasn’t for the Johnnie with
the dibs. She doesn’t care for him: she
wants his money. He dresses badly, don’t
you see : and after all, the clothes make the
man ! I'd like to get at him. I'd spoil his
pretty face for him.” And he assumed a
playfully pugilistic attitude.

“ You really want to get rid of this other
fellow ? ” I asked, seeing my chance.

“ Get rid of him ? Why, of course.
Chuck him into the river some nice dark
night if I could once get a look at him ! ”

“ As a preliminary step, would you mind
letting me see one of Miss Montague’s
letters ? ” I inquired.

He drew a long breath. “ They’re a bit
affectionate, you know,” he murmured, strok¬
ing his beardless chin in hesitation. “ She’s
a hot ’un, Sissie is. She pitches it pretty
warm on the affection-stop, I can tell you.
But if you really think you can give the
other Johnnie a cut on the head with her

HILDA WADE.

443

letters—well, in the interests of true love,
which never does run smooth, I don’t mind
letting you have a squint, as my friend, at
one of her charming billy-doos.”

He took a bundle from a drawer, ran his
eye over one or two with a maudlin air, and
then selected a specimen not wholly unsuit¬
able for publication. “ There's one in the
eye for C.,” he said, chuckling. “What
would C. say to that, I wonder ? She always
calls him C., you know: it’s so jolly non¬
committing. She says, ‘ I only wish that
beastly old bore C. were at Halifax—which
is where he comes from : and then, I would
fly at once to my own dear Reggie! But,
hang it all, Reggie boy, what’s the good of
true love if you haven’t got the dibs ? I must
have my comforts. Love in a cottage is all
very well in its way, but who’s to pay for the
fizz, Reggie ? ’ That’s her refinement, don’t
you see: Sissie’s awfully refined : she was
brought up with the tastes and habits of a
lady.”

“ Clearly so,” I answered. “ Both her

tion. If Miss Sissie had written it on purpose
in order to open Cecil Holsworthy’s eyes she
couldn’t have managed the matter better or
more effectually. It breathed ardent love,
tempered by a determination to sell her
charms in the best and highest matrimonial
market.

“Now, I know this man, C.,” I said when
I had finished. “And I want to ask whether
you will let me show him Miss Montague’s
letter. It would set him against the girl,
who, as a matter of fact, is wholly unwor —
I mean totally unfitted for him.”

“Let you show it to him? Like a bird !
Why, Sissie promised me herself that if she
couldn’t bring ‘that solemn ass, C.,’ up to
the scratch by Christmas she’d chuck him
and marry me. It’s here, in writing.” And
he handed me another gem of epistolary
literature.

“You have no compunctions?” I asked
again, after reading it.

“Not a blessed compunction to my name.”

“ Then neither have I,” I answered.

“i don’t mind letting you have a squint at one of her billy-doos.”

literary style and her liking for champagne
abundantly demonstrate it! ” His acute sense
of humour did not enable him to detect the
irony of my observation. I doubt if it ex¬
tended much beyond oyster-shells.

He handed me the letter. I read it
through with equal amusement and gratifica¬

I felt they both deserved it. Sissie was a
minx, as Hilda rightly judged; while as for
Nettlecraft—well, if a public school and an
English University leave a man a cad, a cad
he will be, and there is nothing more to be
said about it.

I went straight off with the letters to Cecil

444

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

Holsworthy. He read them through half
incredulously at first : he was too honest-
natured himself to believe in the possibility
of such double-dealing—that one could have
innocent eyes and golden hair and yet be a
trickster. He read them twice: then he
compared them word for word with the
simple affection and childlike tone of his
own last letter received from the same lady.
Her versatility of style would have done
honour to a practised literary craftsman. At
last he handed them back to me. “ Do you
think,” he said, “ on the evidence of these, I
should be doing wrong in breaking with
her ? ”

“ Wrong in breaking with her! ” I ex¬
claimed. “You would be doing wrong if
you didn’t. Wrong to yourself: wrong to
your family : wrong, if I may venture to say
so, to Daphne : wrong even in the long run
to the girl herself, for she is not fitted for
you, and she is fitted for Reggie Nettle-
craft. Now do as 1 bid you. Sit down at
once and write her a letter from my dicta¬
tion.”

He sat down and wrote, much relieved
that I took the responsibility off his shoulders.

“ Dear Miss Montague,” I began, “ the
inclosed letters have come into my hands
without my seeking it. After reading them,
I feel that I have absolutely no right to
stand between you and the man of your real
choice. It would not be kind or wise of me
to do so. I release you at once, and consider
myself released. You may therefore regard
our engagement as irrevocably cancelled.

“ Faithfully yours,

“ Cecil Holsworthy.”

“ Nothing more than that ? ” he asked,
looking up and biting his pen. “ Not a
word of regret or apology ? ”

“ Not a word,” I answered. “ You are
really too lenient.”

I made him take it out and post it, before
he could invent conscientious scruples. Then
he turned to me irresolutely. “ What shall I
do next?” he asked, with a comical air of
doubt.

I smiled. “ My dear fellow, that is a
matter for your own consideration.”

“ But—do you think she will laugh at
me ? ”

“ Miss Montague? ”

“No! Daphne.”

“ I am not in Daphne’s confidence,” I
answered. “ I don’t know how she feels.

But on the face of it, I think I can venture
to assure you that at least she won’t laugh
at you.”

He grasped my hand hard. “ You don’t
mean to say so ! ” he cried. “ Well, that’s
really very kind of her ! A girl of Daphne’s
high type ! And I, who feel myself so utterly
unworthy of her ! ”

“ We are all unworthy of a good woman’s
love,” I answered. “ But, thank Heaven, the
good women don’t seem to realize it.”

That evening, about ten, my new friend
came back in a hurry to my rooms at
St. Nathaniel’s. Nurse Wade was standing
there, giving her report for the night when
he entered. His face looked some inches
shorter and broader than usual. His eyes
beamed. His mouth was radiant.

“ Well, you won’t believe it, Dr. Cumber-
ledge,” he began, “ but-”

“ Yes, I do believe it,” I answered. “ I
know it. I have read it already.”

“ Read it! ” he cried. “ Where ? ”

I waved my hand towards his face. “ In
a special edition of the evening papers,” I
answered, smiling. “ Daphne has accepted
you ! ”

He sank into an easy chair, beside himself
with rapture. “Yes, yes : that angel ! thanks
to you , she has accepted me!”

“Thanks to Miss Wade,” I said, correcting
him. “ It is really all her doing. If she had
not seen through the photograph to the face,
and through the face to the woman and the
base little heart of her, we might never have
found her out.”

He turned to Hilda, with eyes all
gratitude. “You have given me the dearest
and best girl on earth,” he cried, seizing both
her hands.

“And I have given Daphne a husband
who will love and appreciate her,” Hilda
answered, flushing.

“ You see,” I said, maliciously: “ I told
you they never find us out, Holsworthy ! ”

As for Reggie Nettlecraft and his wife, I
should like to add that they are getting on
quite as well as could be expected. Reggie
has joined his Sissie on the music-hall stage :
and all those who have witnessed his im¬
mensely popular performance of the Drunken
Gentleman before the Bow Street Police
Court acknowledge without reserve that,
after “ failing for everything,” he has dropped
at last into his true vocation. His impersona¬
tion of the part is said to be “ nature itself.”
I see no reason to doubt it.

Two Railway Sensations.

I.—A GREAT RAILWAY RACE
By Jeremy Broome.

[Illustrations from photos, specially taken for George Newnes, Ltd., by C. M. Hobart , Omaha , Nebraska.)

HIS is to do with the railway
race that recently took place
between Chicago and Omaha.
Our photographer was on the
spot.- The result is shown in
these pages, and the photo¬
graphs are the only ones yet published,
either in the United States or Great Britain,
showing the actual trains in their fleet
contest against time.

Now, there is rarely a race without a stake.
In this case, the stake was a mail contract
valued at seven hundred and fifty thousand
dollars. For some time, it appears, this
subsidy has been granted to two competing
lines between Chicago and Omaha—the

San Francisco by thirteen hours, * aroused
anew the rivalry between the Burlington and
North-Western, and it was understood that
the contract would be awarded to the com¬
pany which could show the fastest service for
a week between Chicago and Omaha.

Behold, then, the opportunity for a genuine
encounter between rival “fliers.” For seven
days, beginning with January 2nd of this year,
the fast mail trains of each line rushed back
and forth between the two points already
named, often on time, sometimes ahead of
time, and always without an accident to mar
the success of the trips, and bring down upon
the companies the retribution of an indig¬
nant public. The Press of two Continents

From a]

THE BURLINGTON “FLIER” APPROACHING COUNCIL BLUFFS AT 73 MILES AN HOUR.

[Photo.

Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy, and the
Chicago and North-Western, and the major
portion has been given to the former
company. A new arrangement, however,
made by the postal authorities, aiming at the
reduction of the time between New York and

watched the outcome with interest, and
described, through its special reporters, the
events of each journey; and the public,
always on the alert for a race, did not fail to
follow the movements of the mails with keen
enjoyment. They cared little whether Uncle

TIIE STRAND MAGAZINE.

446

From a]

THE BURLINGTON DELIVERING THE MAILS TO THE UNION PACIFIC (ON LEFT
AFTER THE RACE.

{Photo.

Sam’s schedule between East and West was
carried out. They cared only about the
contest between the Burlington and North-
Western.

The first real heat in this great contest
took place during
the night of Janu¬
ary 2nd. At 8.28
o’clock p.m. the
• competing trains .
were awaiting in
Chicago the arrival
of the Lake Shore
Express, carrying
a huge cargo of
mail, which had
been dispatched
from New York
and Boston the pre¬
vious night at 9.15
p.m. Promptly on
time the mails
arrived, and in
forty-five minutes
the bags were on
the Burlington
train, ready for the
second stage of
their journey to
Omaha and the Far p rom a \

West. At 9.30 the “flier” was due to start, and
promptly on time she rolled out of the station
on her westward run of 500 miles. A half-
hour later the North-Western left Chicago,
with 492 miles to be covered in the night.

THE NORTH-WESTERN FAST MAIL READY TO START.

A GREAT RAILWAY RACE.

447

It was, indeed, a stirring contest, and the
Press teemed T /ith stories of the trips. Hot
boxes figured prominently. The heroism
and skill of the engineers were detailed at
length. The onward rush in the darkness
was described by vivid pens. A thousand
and one trifling incidents were recorded
to show that a railway race is one of the most
thrilling of existing contests. At times the
“ fliers ” nearly jumped the tracks in their
impetuosity, and it was humorously hinted by
the Press that in the thick of the struggle
several Chicago reporters had lost their nerve.
The excitement, in fact, was enough to stir
the most phlegmatic, and the danger of a

mile record, including a record of a mile in
32sec. made in 1893, was broken on the trip,
and the distance between Siding to Arion,
2x^ths miles, was covered in imin. 2osec., or
at the rate of no miles per hour. These
exceptional records in themselves bespeak a
night of excitement and constant danger.

When the Burlington train was approach¬
ing Council Bluffs, the mail transfer
station near Omaha, she ran at a speed
of seventy-three miles an hour, and it was
at this moment that one of our photo¬
graphs' was taken. She arrived at Council
Bluffs eight minutes ahead of schedule
time, having made her 500 miles with twelve

From a]

THE NORTH-WESTERN ARRIVES IN A SNOW-STORM.

[Photo.

headlong flight in the darkness enough to
daunt the strongest heart.

Thus the battle between giants took place,
and several times the battle was drawn. Both
trains, during the first night, ran at various
times at a speed of eighty miles an hour,
while the lowest rate of speed was 49^5 miles
an hour. On the Burlington the best time
was made between Chicago and Burling¬
ton, where several stretches were covered
at the rate of ninety miles an hour.
On a straight level track of fifteen
miles between Arion and Arcadia, Iowa,
the North-Western left the mile-posts behind
at the rate of one every 35sec. I H Ivery fast-

stops in iohrs. 7mm. The North-Western
“flier” arrived in a snow-storm seventeen
minutes ahead of schedule time, having
covered 492 miles, with eighteen stops, in
phrs. 58mm. The trains had a head wind all
the way. The honours of the night were
slightly with the North-Western.

At Council Bluffs a scene of excitement
ensued. The men at the station rushed to
and fro preparing to shift the mails from one
train to the other with the least possible loss
of time. Haste was imperative, else the
struggle against time, which the “fliers” had
made, would have gone for naught. As we
may see in our illustration, the Union Pacific

448

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

THE BURLINGTON AWAITING THE ARRIVAL OF THE UNION PACIFIC WITH

From a ] the east-bound mail. {Photo.

train on the left drew up alongside of the
Burlington cars, so that the doors of the
mail cars were side by side. Amid excite¬
ment the bags were tossed from one car to
the other. In a few minutes the Burlington
fast mail was empty, the Union Pacific was
disappearing in the West, and the great

locomotive which had made its noteworthy
run in the night stood alone, ready for its
well-earned rest in the “ round-house.”

The contests between Omaha and Chicago,
with the East-bound mails taken from the
Union Pacific, were likewise full of interest,
and on this page we show two photographs

From a]

THE BURLINGTON OFF ON ITS 500-MILE RACE TO CHICAGO,

{Photo.

A RAILWAY SMASH TO ORDER.

449

representing the Burlington train a few
moments before it started, and as it was
when Council Bluffs had been left behind.
Ihe public interest in the Eastward race
had been fired by a remarkable prelimi¬
nary canter taken by the Burlington on
January 2nd. Owing to delays in the-
West, the mails were ihr. 2min. late at
Council Bluffs, yet the whole distance
between that place and Chicago—500 '2 miles,
—excluding stops, was made in 523^min.

The last 206 miles were covered in 213mm.,
or 2oomin. of actual running time. It
was a remarkable trip, and notwithstand¬
ing the delay at the start, the train arrived
punctually on time. The officials, it is
reported, were satisfied with having made
the fastest time on record between the
two cities, and the contract for which
the race was so keenly fought is now
understood to remain with this well-known
company.

II.—A RAILWAY SMASH TO ORDER.

[The photographs which illustrate this article were taken by Mr. Fred. A. Westland , of Denver, Colorado ,
under extraordinary difficulties , and in one instance , at least , at the risk off his life.]

RAILWAY collision as a
public spectacle ! The idea
could have occurred to no
human being but an enter¬
prising Yankee showman, with
an eye to business of the most
colossal kind. A train-wrecking scene, pre¬
arranged, and witnessed by forty thousand
people, is a notion which beats Barnum on
his own ground^ Yet such a “ show ” is an
accomplished fact. The collision, which was
between two powerful railway locomotives,
took place some time ago near Denver,
Colorado.

The instigators of the scheme were a
number of “ free silver ” agitators, who repre¬
sented the majority of the residents in the
Western States. They were intrusted with
the duty of raising funds to defray expenses.

A suitable site was selected and inclosed
with fencing, solid and high enough to pre¬
vent the. “show” from being witnessed by

anyone not paying an entrance fee of fifty
cents.

The engines were of great power, and,
though not new, were by no means obsolete.
A track somewhat over a mile in length was
laid in the centre of the arena. On the day
of the great event the engines were decorated
with flags and bunting. In our first picture
we see the two mighty foes face to face; the
engine-drivers are receiving their instructions,
and are duly photographed, together with
some of the officials and promoters of the
scheme.

It was decided that one of the engines
should be called “ Bill McKinley,” the other
“ Mark Hanna.” Now, there is a deal of
humour in the selection of these names. Eor
the namesakes of these doomed monsters
were the two great statesmen whose political
policy the “ free silver ” organizers of the
smash were engaged in fighting.

The opposing engines, standing in the

THE SALUTE,

[. PhotQ,

45 °

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

position shown in the illustration, saluted each
other with their whistles. Then each was
backed half a mile from the mid-way spot at
which they were to meet in the colossal crash.

At a given signal the drivers again turned
on the whistles, threw open the throttles, and
jumped for their lives.

Away went “ Bill McKinley” and “ Mark
Hanna ” — slowly at first, but with ever-
gathering speed. Puffing, snorting, their
whistles screaming like two fiends in fury,
the terrific monsters bore down upon each
other. There came a crash, a sound like
thunder, the sharp crackling of steel rods and
iron plates, the fierce hiss of steam, and clouds
of smoke that hung above the ruins like a
funeral pall —and the “ show ” was at an end.

It was a scene that will never be for¬
gotten by the forty thousand silent and
awe-struck witnesses, many of whom were

The “ crash ” was voted perfect, however,
except by the spectators on the side nearest
to the unexpected meeting-place, who at the
moment were seeking shelter in flight. In¬
deed, the spectacle of twenty thousand souls
rushing to safety was in itself an appalling
. one.

It is marvellous to record, however, that
no one was seriously hurt. Our plucky
photographer was not more than a hundred
feet from the very place where these monsters
met, yet he had sufficient nerve to open the
shutter as though he were snapping, a mere
honeymoon couple on their wedding day.
The result of his extraordinary courage under
such exceptional circumstances is shown in
our second photograph, which probably
beats the record of anything of the kind
which has ever been attempted. To give an
instance of the risk incurred, we may recall

From-a]

[Photo.

heard to say that on no account would they
ever consent to witness such a sight again.
The fact is that the show turned out to be
by no means so free from danger as the
spectators anticipated. It happened that the
“Bill McKinley” was much the better engine
of the two, and, starting earlier than his
opponent, upset the careful calculations made
as to the exact spot where the collision should
take place. The faster engine reached a
speed of forty miles per hour to the other’s
twenty-five or thirty. The consequence was
that the engines, instead of meeting in the
open space left clear of spectators for the
purpose, collided at a point round which
a great crowd was assembled, and only a
panic-stricken stampede prevented a terrible
disaster.

the fact that, on another occasion, when a
somewhat similar “ performance ” took place,
the photographer received injuries from
which he was never expected to recover.
An iron bolt two inches long struck him and
embedded itself in the left eye. The patient,
we are glad to add, escaped with his life.

On inspection of the first picture it will be
observed that in the “ cab ” of the “ Mark
Hanna ” is seafed what appears to be the
fireman or stoker at his post. Indeed, he
sat there throughout the fatal ride, and was
not even seen to tremble. The trembling
was all on the spectators’ side. He died as
he had lived, a mere dummy of rags and
straw.

Our third photograph, taken about twenty
minutes after the crash, shows the excited

A RAILWAY SMASH TO ORDER.

45 1

From a ] relic-hunters. [Photo.

mass of humanity who have made the wreck
their own. They were photographed in the
act of removing every portable particle of
the debi'is as mementos of such a sight as
they would probably never witness again.
Even the bells, which weighed more than
ioolb. apiece, were carried away while still
warm.

The last photograph, taken the day after
the occurrence, shows what destruction can
be accomplished in a fraction of a second,
and the danger to which the drivers of
engines are exposed by the telescoping of
the cab and tender. The two rods projecting
from the front of the locomotive on the right
were each fastened to a pilot, the object
being to pierce the antagonist’s boiler. At
the crash they were both driven into one
boiler, with the result that the other boiler

had only the open whistle to exhaust the
steam.

It will be noticed in the first illustration
that the locomotives are twins, except in the
style of funnels with which they are equipped,
and a few minor points. In the second
photograph they appear to be hugging each
other; but a few moments after having been
photographed, the locomotives settled down to
the earth, and curiously enough at some
distance from each other. The sun had
disappeared some minutes before the collision
actually took place, and the process of
photographing became, therefore, a matter of
great difficulty.

Everybody was satisfied, however—even the
collision promoters, who had a balance over
expenses of about ten thousand dollars, or
in plain £ s. d., something over ^2,000 !

From a ]

THE DAY AFTER,

l Pnvto,

By Arthur I. Durrant.

Author of “ Yttssuf” “ The Hidden Harmony f etc.

HAR, stranger, if you care to
look over thar you’ll see a
small specimen of what
this country can do in the
mountain line,” said Rube
Waydon, in a casual sort of
way, as he turned to his companion and
waved his hand indifferently towards the
horizon on his left.

Ralph Westwood did care to look, and the
sight almost took away his breath. Not that
he had much to spare just then, however,
for he had been toiling for some time up the
steep side of the Pink Mushroom, the name
given locally to one of the lesser peaks of
the Rocky Mountains.

The view of the two travellers had been
hitherto confined by the sloping walls of
rock between which Forked Lightning Pass
zig-zagged its way over the mountain to
Pioneer City, a rapidly - growing town of
some thousands of inhabitants.

Ralph Westwood, it should be said, was
on a visit to a friend of his father’s, a Mr.
Marland, who possessed a large estate on the
outskirts of Pioneer City. Rube Waydon
was Mr. Marland’s overseer, and had met
Ralph at East Peaksville on the other side
of the range, in order to conduct him on
foot to Pioneer. As Ralph had missed that
morning’s coach a day would be thus saved.

“ You see it ? ” queried Rube, pointing to
a far-distant summit, that rose like a pyramid
of purple shadow above the vaporous clouds
encircling the rest of the mountains.

“ I do, and a glorious sight it is, too,”
replied Ralph, fervently.

“ Well,” continued Rube, with a some¬
what patronizing air, “ that peak is one
of the ‘ Three Goblins,’ _ end it’s fourteen
thousand feet high if it’s an inch. End
thar’s a river running down the slope we’re
on now thet is calc’lated to make you sit up.
Yes, siree, thet river mayn’t be much to
brag about in regard to width, but it scoops
the pool every time in the matter of depth.
Thet river, sir, is only fifty feet wide, but
its depth is a quarter of a mile ! ” The
words came very slowly, in order to allow
the stranger to fully grasp the significance of
the figures. “ And 1 way add thet the water
slides between those rocks so swiftly as to
boil , sir! Yes, sir, boil!”

“ Ah ! ” was all Ralph could gasp.

“Thet’s so,” resumed Rube, warming to
his work; “thet current is no slouch. You
might heave a matter of half a ton of rock
into thet stream, sir, end it wouldn’t have
time to sink till it struck the valley two miles
down. You’d see it floating on the surface
all the time. But I warn you, stranger,
against heaving rocks into thet river when
there’s any person around,, becase it kinder
got to be a popular amusement awhile back,
end the rocks accumulated in the valley and
nearly choked up the channel. Er.d if you’re
caught at it now you’re taxed a hundred
dollars towards fishing out some of those
rocks.”

Rube paused to take breath, and glanced

A GENTLE CUSTOM .

453

at Ralph to note the effect of his fluent
oratory. “ I guess you can’t enumerate
many rivers like thet in Great Britain, eh,
stranger ? ” he concluded, unctuously.

“You are right,” answered Ralph; “we
can’t boast of anything to equal that.” The
look of amazement on his face seemed to
satisfy even Rube, and for the next few
minutes the mighty wonders of Nature
escaped further advertisement.

Presently, however, when he thought Ralph
had somewhat recovered from his previous
attack, he again opened fire.

“ In about ten minutes, stranger, you’ll see
something that’ll prop up your eyelids. Just
before we get on the straight track for
Pioneer there’s a bit of a drop clear
down to the river — two thousand four
hundred feet. Nothing out of the ordinary,
thet, of course,” he added, apologetically,
“ but the peculiarity is thet it’s a sheer drop,
without the sign of a crack or crevice from
top to bottom of the rock face on either
side. It’s called 4 Blue Beard’s Gallows.’ ”

“ What on earth for ? ” asked Ralph, whose
curiosity was fully aroused by the startling
title.

“ Well, of course, you’ve heard of Blue
Beard ? ”

“ Not since 1 left the nursery— that is,
only in the pantomimes,” interjected Ralph.

“Not heard of Blue Beard ! ” cried Rube,
incredulously. “Why,” he went on, com¬
passionately, “you haven’t begun to live yet.
Blue Beard, sir, is the all-firedest, dog-
gondest road-agent in this etarnal continent,
'fhet’s Blue Beard’s kind of man.”

“ What, a highwayman ? But why 4 Blue
Beard ’ ? ”

“He calls himself Road-Agent, and he
was christened Blue Beard when he was
dipped in a vat of blue dye. Maybe I’ll tell
you thet tale later. Anyhow, he operates
around these parts.”

“Nowadays?” questioned Ralph. “Surely
not ? ”

“ Right now,” said Rube, decisively.
“ Once or twice a year he waits down by the
road in the valley, just where we shall strike
it. Hope he won’t annex your traps when
they’re being conveyed around to-morrow,
because thet’s his scheme. He runs a
matter of five or six assistants. Say the
coach from East Peaksville or Morningmist
City comes waltzing gaily along, and the
whole universe ’pearing right down saturated
with peace and harmony. Then, from the
centre of nowhere come a couple of little
streaks of light, and pop ! pop ! end the

leaders subside gracefully in their tracks.
Then half-a-dozen gentlemen saunter up and
the decorated one drawls, ‘ Your chips,
pards,’ quite pleasant like. End they hand
them over pretty spry, you may gamble on
thet. You see, they know thet if they don’t
it’ll be checks instead of chips they’ll hand
over.”

“ That means-” commenced Ralph,

inquiringly.

“Thet if they don’t pass out their valuables,
they take a little journey over the ridge.”

“ Over the ridge ? Where to ? Whatever
are you driving at ? ” exclaimed Ralph,
mystified and perhaps a little irritated by
Rube’s highly symbolical language.

“ Well, stranger,” returned Rube, leisurely,
“ don’t kick your boots off. You haven’t
learnt the American language yet. You
only know English, which is a trifle too
antique for practical use in this country.
Translated into your effete tongue, what I
said meant that if the passengers don’t
accede to Blue Beard’s polite request for
their cash, they—die,” and Rube screwed
the corners of his mouth up in a significant
manner, adding shortly the word “ variously.”

“ Variously ? ” repeated Ralph. “ I sup¬
pose you mean they have a choice of routes
4 over the ridge ’ ? ”

“He has the choice,” corrected Rube;
“ they don’t have much to say in the matter.”

“This Blue Beard fellow must be a unique
specimen of a road-agent,” smilingly remarked
Ralph.

“ Well, yes,” responded Rube, with great
gusto. “He is a thought masterful in his
ways. He’s an ingenious cuss, too, and
what’s more, he’s got a considerable amount
of humour in his indigo skull.”

“Ah,” said Ralph, “ in what way? ”

Rube settled into a steady stride, and was
evidently in the mood to spin a yarn.

“ Two winters ago, when Blue Beard held
up the 4 Bonaventure ’ coach, one of the
passengers showed fight. Of course, it was
simply throwing away his hand—Blue Beard
took care of thet. Well, by his orders thet
fool passenger was hitched on the tail of a
long rope, end h’isted over Blue Beard’s
Gallows, which is how it came by its name.

44 If you’ve a lively imagination, stranger,
you may have a slight idea of how thet
passenger felt, dangling around over a sheer
drop of two thousand four hundred feet, with
short notice to quit, and a nice, soft bed of
spiky crags waiting for him at the edge of
the river. Likewise of his feelings when Blue
Beard and his pet lambkins strolled round

454

THE STEAND MAGAZINE.

to the other side and started taking pot-shots
at the rope a couple of feet above that fool
passenger’s head. End he looking at them
all the while, mind. Now, wasn’t he a fool ?

“They do say,” he continued, with evident
relish, “ that Blue Beard’s crew couldn’t have
been very brilliant with their artillery,
becase they fired forty-nine shots before
they cut the rope. End they do say, too,
thet at the twenty-second shot thet fool
passenger burst out laughing, end simply
howled with laughter till the finish of the
show. Stark, staring crazy, / reckon,” Rube
concluded, laconically.

“ What a monster ! ” ejaculated Ralph.

“ M’yes, he might answer to thet descrip¬
tion. But the idea so tickled his monster-
ship thet it’s got to be a regular custom
with him now. And the
hangees, I’m told, always
start laughing before the
thirtieth shot. Sorter
cotton to the humour
of the thing. Oh, he’s
humorsome, is B. B.

He’s a daisy, he is.”

“Got to be a custom! ”
cried Ralph ; “ why, in
the name of all that is
civilized, don’t they stop
him at the game ? ”

“Huh!” replied Rube,
contemptuously, “ why
don’t you stop this little
breeze thet’s playing
around now ? Its game
would likelier be easier to
stop than Blue Beard’s.”

They had now arrived at
the edge of Blue Beard’s
Gallows, and further con¬
versation on the subject of
the eccentric robber’s
iniquities was cut short
by Rube’s asking Ralph
whether he would like to
look down.

“ I should, indeed,” said
Ralph, eagerly, “ but how ?

It looks to me as if the rock
slopes down towards the edge.”

“We’ll soon fix thet,”
answered Rube. “ We’ll join
hands end lay ourselves flat on the
rock so thet you can hike your head
over, and look all you want to—
thet is, if your head isn’t loose.”

“Oh, I think it is screwed on fairly
tight,” responded Ralph, smilingly.

Without further ado they threw them¬
selves down and clasped hands, Ralph near
the edge and Rube with one foot planted
against a slight projection. By dint of a little
wriggling, Ralph soon managed to reach the
extremity of the little slope and look over
into the depths below. It was well that
Ralph’s head was not loose, for the sight
beneath him made his every nerve tingle.

That side of the canon where Ralph lay
was curved inwards from its summit, and
there was in consequence absolutely nothing
between his eyes and the rocks and river.
And the latter were so far below him that
the rocks, huge as they must have been,
looked like mere pebbles, and the swiftly
flowing river like a silver ribbon fringed
with floss silk where the water dashed

‘ THE SIGH T UENEATH HIM MADE EVERY
NERVE TINGLE."

A GENTLE CUSTOM.

455

itself into foam against the boulders lining
the channel on either side.

Ralph was fascinated by the spectacle.
Forgetting the peril of his position, he began
to squirm himself nearer still to the edge in
the endeavour to obtain a better view.

“ Hold on, stranger, we’ll go down by the
usual track this trip,” suddenly exclaimed
Rube, and Ralph found the grip on his hand
tighten like a vice.

“ Come on, stranger,” Rube continued ;
“ I guess you’ve had enough of this show for
one performance.” And with that he hauled
on Ralph’s hand so vigorously, that, whether
he would or not, he was obliged to comply
with his guide’s command.

“ Well, now,” queried Rube, with a self-
satisfied air, “it’s a dainty little gallows, eh ? ”

“Dainty !” echoed Ralph ; “it’s grand, it’s
sublime ! But—gallows—ugh ! 1 had for¬

gotten Blue Beard. I don’t wonder at his
wretched victims going mad.”

Resuming the track, they settled down
into a steady pace, and in less than an hour
Ralph was taking tea with Mr. Marland and
his daughter, and was chatting away with
them as easily and familiarly as if he had
known them for years. Rube was also one
of the party, for he was thought so much of
by all, that he was considered one of the
family.

That meal was an exceedingly pleasant one
for Ralph. Not only was a most hearty
welcome extended to him by his host, but
what was even more gratifying to the English¬
man, his host’s daughter was evidently
graciously disposed towards him.

Lurly Marland, the young lady in question,
was the delightful product of all that is best
in the influences which mould the character
of the American woman. In her, the school
and society culture of the East and the
mountain and prairie freshness of the West
were blended in the happiest proportions.
Her real name, Lurline, was given to her by
her father, for she was only a few days old
when her mother died. That was nearly
fourteen years before he had to leave his
banking business in New York to go West in
search of health. But “ Lurline ” was, of
course, an impossible name in Pioneer City,
and so everyone called her “Lurly.”

Lurly’s charms of person and manner
seemed to incite the Englishman to make
the most of his conversational powers, which
were of no mean order. Indeed, Rube, for
one, would have be§n sorry to dispute the
fact, for before the meal was over he found
to his chagrin that Ralph was far from being

gulled by the absurdly exaggerated descrip¬
tions with which he had been bombarded bn
the way from East Peaksville. The wily
fellow, in fact, having read up a recently
published account of the State, possessed
more technical knowledge of the locality
than Rube himself. And some of Ralph’s
comments on that worthy’s ideas of measure¬
ment and on his tale of Blue Beard created
so much amusement that Rube heartily
regretted his eagerness to take a rise out of
the visitor.

Lurly in particular railed at Rube right
merrily for allowing himself to be, as she
quaintly put it, “ rendered microscopical ”
by a mere Britisher.

The next morning, as they were finishing
breakfast, Mr. Marland announced his inten¬
tion of riding to West Point, a small town¬
ship some distance away, and gave Ralph
the option of either accompanying him or
staying behind and making himself acquainted
with the immediate neighbourhood.

Ralph glanced at Lurly. She was regard¬
ing him with a demure smile. The idea of
inducing her to become his guide settled the
question.

“ Well, there’s a good deal that’s pleasant
hereabouts,” remarked Mr. Marland, as he
said “good-bye.” Ralph acquiesced, perhaps
a little too emphatically. Anyhow, as Lurly
leaned towards her father to kiss him, she
shot a mischievous glance over his shoulder
at Ralph which considerably perturbed that
young man’s equanimity.

As Mr. Marland and Rube reached the
door, however, the former turned back, and
drawing a small package from his pocket,
handed it to Lurly, saying :—

“ See, Lurly, I guess I will leave these
notes with you. They are the eight thousand
dollars I had from New York this morning.
I don’t want to carry them around with me
all day.”

“ Right, Popper,” replied Lurly, as she took
the notes. “ I daresay,” she went on, turning
to Ralph, “ you would like to explore with
Rube ? ” There was an exasperating twinkle
in her eyes, and Ralph saw it. He was com¬
pletely nonplussed, and could only stutter

“ Er—I shouldn’t like to interfere with
Rube’s duties, you know. I thought—I
would infinitely rather-

“ Oh,” laughed Lurly, “ why didn’t you
jvzyso? We don’t experimentalize much in
thought-reading here—we speak out.”

Ralph recovered himself. “ I beg your
pardon,” he said, with feigned humility,
“ may I have the pleasure of-”

45 6

THE STRAND • MAGAZINE .

“No, I think I will sit this one out,” she
interrupted, mockingly. “ Come, now,” she
continued, laughingly, “we are not running
a dancing academy. Yes, I will come with
you. But I’ve lots to do, and can only
spare you—say, half an hour.”

Ralph’s face fell.

“ But,” she resumed, quietly, “ if you like
to amuse yourself about the place for an hour
or two, I might,” she hesitated, and then
said, coyly, “ find that I could postpone the
rest of my duties—till to-morrow.”

Ralph brightened up wonderfully. “ Thank
you,” he cried, gratefully; “I won’t hinder you
any more. I will be back in an hour’s time.”

When he reached the door, however, he
could not refrain from glancing round at
Lurly’s retreating figure, and in doing so he
blundered against the door-post, nearly flying
headlong to the ground. He was muttering
objurgations on his stupidity when he ran
plump into the arms of Rube.

“Ah,” said Rube, calmly, “I guessed you
wouldn’t have gone very far. What do you
say to a look around ? ”

“I should like it,” replied Ralph, “so
long as I can get back soon.”

“Oh,” returned Rube, “I guess it won’t
take long to show you what I want to,” and
they started off up the road to which Rube
had, the day before, alluded as the coach
track.

They had gone, perhaps, a mile, when they
heard a slight scuffling behind them, and a
gruff voice growl peremptorily :—

“ Hands up, pards ! ”

Ralph and Rube sprang round simulta¬
neously to find themselves gazing into the
muzzles of five revolvers levelled point-blank
at their heads. And behind the revolvers
were five as bloodthirsty-looking ruffians as
ever the Farthest West could show in its
wildest days of turbulence and anarchy.

But the aspect of one of the men surpassed
that of all the rest by its ferocious grotesque¬
ness. His whole head—face, beard, and all—
was blue , a deep, coarse, unmistakable blue !

Rube’s veracity was vindicated. Here
was Blue Beard himself, with a vengeance.

Ralph was bewildered. “Up with your
hands, you fool! ” ejaculated Rube, whose
hands were already high above his head.
Ralph mechanically obeyed.

“ Go over ’em,” said Blue Beard to two of
his band; and in less than a minute the
contents of the pockets of the two victims
were handed to him.

A muttered curse broke from him, and he
turned savagely on his prisoners.

“ Whar’s them notes old man Marland
pouched this morning ? ”

“ Got them on him,” answered Rube,
sullenly.

“ You lie ! We’ve just been through him.”

“ What, killed him ? ” cried Ralph, horrified
beyond measure.

“ Killed him! ” returned Blue Beard,
mincingly, “ no, we ain’t killed him ! He
knows his Bible—skinned out right smart
end told us all we asked ez politely ez a
boarding-school miss. So we let him flit.
Said he’d conveyed them notes to you two to
hold,” and he turned to Rube threateningly.

“ He didn’t give them to me,” said Rube,
hurriedly.

The vision of Lurly’s laughing face rose
before Ralph’s eyes. “ He gave them to
me,” he said, boldly, “ and I’ve hidden them
where you won’t find them.”

Blue Beard made no reply to Ralph, but
turned on his heel to the rest of the gang,
saying, quietly

“ I guess we 11 have a little gun practice
this forenoon.”

Gun practice ! Rube’s tale of the gallows
came back to Ralph with a shock. Better,
a thousand times better, sudden death than
that. With one bound he sprang on Blue
Beard, struck him a terrific blow between the
eyes, and, as he was falling, snatched his
revolver from his hand. Quick as Ralph
was, however, the other four had recovered
from their astonishment at the sudden on¬
slaught and were upon him. Before he
could use his weapon it was torn from his
grasp, and, despite his frantic struggles, he
was soon overpowered, bound, and gagged.

By this time, Blue Beard had picked him¬
self up and was tenderly caressing his bruised
forehead and swelling eyes. He grunted a
word or two, and Ralph was, for some reason
he could not divine, blindfolded.

Exhausted by his exertions, and dazed
with rage and apprehension, Ralph was
dragged to the foot of the pass. Every now
and then, in the hope that his captors might
be exasperated into shooting him, he threw
himself on the ground and offered as much
obstruction to his warders as he could. It
was in vain. They were evidently determined
to make Ralph pay the full penalty of his
fruitless resistance.

They began to ascend the pass. Up and
ever up, struggling and stumbling, they
forced their unhappy prisoner. At last they
stopped : they had reached the spot where
the dread sentence would be carried out.

Up to this time Ralph’s consciousness had

4 GENTLE CUSTOM.

457

been almost entirely concentrated on the
contest with his foes. Now he began to
realize his fate. Less than an hour ago he
was with his newly found, bright-eyed little
friend—with Lurly—she was laughing at him
merrily.now, death, hideous, ter¬

rible, grinned in his face. As the rope was
being knotted under his arms, he thought
also of his parents, his friends, England, of
numberless things. Suddenly, like a blow,
came in gruff, vindictive tones :—

“ Sling him over ! ”

The rope was 'erlced up, nearly tearing
his arms off; someone gave him a push, and
he was swinging in mid-air.

He could feel a cold sweat
gathering on his forehead.

He heard as in a
dream a mutter¬
ing of voices—
footsteps receding
from the cliffs
above him. Then
.... silence.

He was not so
much afraid now.

He had shown
these brutal
Yankees that he
was an English¬
man. His love
of life, intense
though it was,
had not induced
him for an instant
to think of be¬
traying his trust.

There was com¬
fort in that. But
now a horrible
thought darted
through his mind. Suppose he went mad,
as the others had done, and divulged his
secret in his ravings ! That thought was the
supremest torture. He would, he must, for
Lurly’s sake, keep coo). Thank God, the
ruffians had forgotten to remove the bandage
from his eyes. That gave him a better chance.
He would fix his mind on the mental picture
of Lurly’s face. He would not-

Crack !

A thrill flashed through him like an
electric shock. The end had begun.

Crack ! Crack ! Crack !

He could hear the bullets pattering against
the rock at his back. The rope was sawing
his chest in two. His brain was getting
fiery hot. God ! he must keep calm. All
he prayed for now was a true shot. The

Yol. xvii.—§8.

breeze swayed him to and fro. He cursed
it with all the bitterness of his heart as he
cursed his tormentors for not shooting
straight. His brain was catching fire—he
fancied that he could see his will slipping
and sliding away from him, and he tried to
clutch it with both hands—but they were
bound to his sides. It was all useless, he
was going mad—mad !

Tch-k-k !

Ah! at last. A bullet had cut half

through the rope. The remaining strands
parted with a crackle. A strange, momentary
feeling of gratitude that the end had come
in time, and then, as consciousness flickered
out, Ralph felt himself falling—falling-

The subdued hum of a million bees, the
drowsy murmur of little waves lipping a
shallow shore, and many curious and un¬
known sounds, muffled by vast distances,
greeted Ralph back to life.

He opened his eyes. He was lying on
his back, and he must be in Heaven, for the
first thing he saw was—Lurly’s face ! No, it
could not be Heaven, for her features were
clouded with wrath, and she was rating, in
most unmeasured terms, several men whom
Ralph now discerned to be standing round.

“with a bound he sprang on blue beard.”

45 8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ YOU ARE A RACK OK COWARDLY RUFFIANS.”

“ You are a pack of cowardly ruffians ; and
as for you, Rube Waydon—you, who, I
thought, did possess some of the instincts of
a gentleman—you are a low-down skunk ! ”

“There’s no harm done, Miss Lurly,”
replied Rube, penitently. “ We shouldn’t
have carried it so far, only look what he did
for Luke,” and Rube nodded towards one of
the bystanders.

Ralph had, in the meantime, fully returned
to his senses. He found that he was no
longer bound or gagged, nor were his eyes
bandaged. He could see that he was lying
in the path, while on an overhanging ledge
some ten feet above him dangled a yard of
rope with the end frayed. He had fallen
twelve or fourteen inches. The whole thing
was a practical joke !

At Rube’s words, Ralph turned and
glanced at the individual indicated. It was
the erstwhile Blue Beard, but a sorrier look¬
ing road - agent was surely never seen.
Ralph’s blow had been a most effective one.
Luke’s eyes were hardly visible, and there
was a huge swelling on his forehead. The
blue on his face was partly smeared off, and
the bruise showed purple through what
remained. As he stood hanging his head
dejectedly, he looked such a pitiable object
that the indignant Lurly was somewhat
mollified by the sight.

“ Go home, scarecrow ! ” she cried, “ and
put your head in a plaster. It’s a great pity
you weren’t all served alike.”

Turning to Ralph she continued, but in a
very different tone, “ Do you feel nicer now ?

Do you think you can walk home—with
me ? ” she added, archly.

Ralph looked his feelings, and started to
his feet. “A trifle stiff,” he said, “that is
all, I think. I was a perfect idiot to be taken
in so easily.”

“ Well,” broke in Rube, “ you might have
known you were being hazed. For example,
look at Luke’s face and then at your
knuckles. Dye, I guess, can’t be wiped
off so. That’s one reason why we wound
thet bandanna round your head. Another
was -” Lurly made a little gesture of im¬

patience. “Anyhow,” resumed Rube, taking
the hint, “ I do admire your grit. You
ought’er been an American. It was darned
rough on you, I allow. Will you shake ? ”
and he held out his hand to Ralph.

It was a very handsome apology for a
native of the States to make, and Ralph
knew it. He grasped Rube’s hand and
shook it warmly. “ We shall be the better
friends for it,” he cried.

“ You bet! ” was the hearty response.

“Now clear,” said Lurly, waving them off.
“I want to walk with a gentleman,” and
the discomfited band trooped back to tasks
more useful, if less congenial, than the one
they had just been engaged upon.

And Ralph Westwood has since declared
that, though the ordeal through which he had
passed was indeed a terrible one, he would
cheerfully undergo it a dozen times oyer
for another such walk as that which
followed it. Only, he might add, there is
now no need.

Liquid Air.

A NEW SUBSTANCE THAT PROMISES TO DO THE WORK OF COAL
AND ICE AND GUNPOWDER, AT NEXT TO NO COST.

By Ray Stannard Baker.

Illustrated from Photographs taken expressly for this Article.

MR. TRIPLER ALLOWING THE LIQUID AIR TO FLOW FROM THE LIQUEFIER.

On striking the warm outer atmosphere, part of the liquid air instantly vaporizes, and flows out upon the floor in thick,

billowy clouds.

HARLES E. TRIPLER, of
New York, reduces the air
of his laboratory to a clear,

sparkling liquid that boils

on ice, freezes pure alcohol,
and burns steel like tissue

paper. And yet Mr. Tripler dips up this
astounding liquid in an old tin saucepan and
pours it about like so much water. Although
fluid, it is not wet to the touch, but it burns
like a white-hot iron, and when exposed to the
open air for a few minutes, it vanishes in a cold,
grey vapour, leaving only a bit of white frost.

All this is wonderful enough, but it is by

no means the most wonderful of the

inventor’s achievements. I saw Mr. Tripler

admit a quart or more of the liquid air into
a small engine. A few seconds later the
piston began to pump vigorously, driving the
fly-wheel as if under a heavy head of steam.
The liquid air had not been forced into the
engine under pressure, and there was no
perceptible heat under the boiler; indeed,
the tube which passed for a boiler was soon
shaggy with white frost. Yet the little
engine stood there in the middle of the
room running apparently without motive
power, making no noise and giving out no
heat or smoke, and producing no ashes.
And that is something that can be seen
nowhere else in the world—it is a new and
almost inconceivable marvel.

460

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“If I can make little engines run by this
power, why not big ones ? ” asks Mr, Tripler.
“And if 1 can produce liquid air practically
without cost—and I will show you that I
really can—why shouldn’t we be able soon
to do entirely away with coal and wood and
all other fuel ? ”

“ And run entirely with air ? ”

“Yes, with liquid air in place of the water
now used in steam boilers, and the ordinary
heat of the air instead of the coal under the
boilers. Air is the cheapest material in the
world, but we have only begun learning how
to use it. We know little about compressed
air, but almost nothing about utilizing the
heat of the air. For centuries men have been
digging their source of heat out of the earth
at enormous expense, and then wasting
90 per cent, of it in burning. Coal is only
the sun’s energy stored up. What 1 do is
to use the sun’s energy direct.

“ It is really one of the simplest things in
the world,” Mr. Tripler continues, “when
you understand it. In the case of a steam
engine, you have water and coal. You must
take heat enough out of the coal and put it
into the water to change the water into a gas
—that is, steam. The expansion of this gas
produces power. And the water will not give
off any steam until it has reached the boiling
point of 2i2deg. Fahrenheit.

“Now, steam bears the same relation to
water that air bears to liquid air. Air is a
liquid at 3i2deg. below zero—a degree of
cold that we can hardly imagine. If you
raise it above 3i2deg. below zero it boils,
just as water boils above 2i2deg. Now,
then, we live at a temperature averaging,
say, 7odeg. above zero—about the present
temperature of this room. In other words,
we are 382deg. warmer than liquid air.
Therefore, compared with the cold of
liquid air, we are living in a burning fiery
furnace. A race of people who could live
at 3i2deg. below zero would shrivel up
as quickly in this room as we should if we
were shut up in a baking-oven. Now, then,
you have liquid air—a liquid at 3i2deg.
below zero. You expose it to the heat of
this furnace in which we live, and it boils
instantly, and throws off a vapour which ex¬
pands and produces power. That’s simple,
isn’t it ? ”

It did seem simple ; and you remembered,
not without awe, that Mr. Tripler was the
first man who ever ran an engine with liquid
air, as he was also the first to invent a
machine for making liquid air in quantities,
a machine which has, by the way, been

passed as original by the Patent Office in
Washington. " But these two achievements,
extraordinary as they are, form merely the
basis for more surprising experiments.

MANNER AND COST OF PRODUCING LIQUID
AIR.

It is easy enough, after obtaining a supply
of liquid air, to run an engine with it; but
where is there any practical advantage in
using steam power to make liquid air and
then using the liquid air for running engines?
Why not use steam power direct, as at
present ?

Mr. Tripler always anticipates this question
after explaining his engine—which is still
running smoothly before our eyes.

“ You have seen how I run this engine
with liquid air,” he says. “ Now, if I can
produce power by using liquid air in my
engine, why not use that power for producing
more liquid air ? A liquid-air engine, if
powerful enough, will compress the air and
produce the cold in my liquefying machine
exactly as well as a steam engine. Isn’t that
plain ? ”

You look at the speaker hard and a bit
suspiciously. “Then you propose making
liquid air with liquid air ? ”

“ I not only propose doing it, but this
machine actually does it.”

“You pour liquid air into your engine,
and take more liquid air out of your
liquefier ? ”

“ Yes; it is merely an application of the
power produced by my liquid-air engine.”

This all but takes your breath away.
“ That is perpetual motion,” you object.

“No,” says Mr. Tripler, sharply, “no per¬
petual motion about it. The heat of the
atmosphere is boiling the liquid air in my
engine and producing power just exactly as
the heat of coal boils water and drives off
steam. I simply use another form of heat.
I get my power from the heat of the sun ; so
does every other producer of power. Coal,
as I said before, is only a form of the sun’s
energy stored up. The perpetual motion
crank tries to utilize the attraction of gravita¬
tion, not the heat of the sun.”

Then Mr. Tripler continues, more slowly :
“ But I go even further than that. If I
could produce only two gallons of liquid air
from my liquefying machine for every two
gallons I put into my engine, I should gain
nothing at all; I should only be performing
a curious experiment that would have no
practical value. But I actually find that I
can produce, for every two gallons of liquid
air that I pour into my engine, a larger

LIQUID AIR.

461

quantity of liquid air from my liquefier. This
seems absolutely unbelievable, and it is hard
to explain; you will understand it better
after I show you exactly my process of
making liquid air. Briefly, the liquefaction
of air is caused by intense cold, not by com¬
pression, although compression is a part of
the process. After once having produced
this cold, I do not need so much pressure
on the air which I am forcing into the
liquefying machine. Indeed, so great does
the cold actually become that the external
air, rushing in under ordinary atmospheric
pressure to fill
the vacuum
caused by lique¬
faction, itself
becomes lique¬
fied. That is, my
liquefying ma¬
chine will keep
on producing as
much liquid air
as ever, while it
takes very much
less liquid air to
keep the com¬
pressor engine
going. This dif¬
ference I save.

It is hard to
understand just
how this comes
about, for you
must remember
that we are
dealing with in¬
tensely low tem¬
pera tu res— an
unfamiliar do¬
main, the influ¬
ences and effects
of which are not
yet well under¬
stood—and not
with pressures.

“ I have actu¬
ally made about ten gallons of liquid air in
my liquefier by the use of about three gallons
in my engine. There is, therefore, a sur¬
plusage of seven gallons that has cost me
nothing, and which I can use elsewhere as
power.”

“ And there is no limit to this production ;
you can keep on producing this surplusage
indefinitely ?’*’

“ I think so. I have not- yet finished my
experiments, you understand, and I don’t
want to claim too much. I believe I have

discovered a great principle in science, and I
believe I can make practical machinery do
what my experimental machine will do.”

What if Mr. Tripler can build a success¬
ful “surplusage machine ” ? It is bewilder¬
ing to dream of the possibilities of a
source of power that costs nothing. Think
of the ocean greyhound unencumbered with
coal - bunkers, and sweltering boilers, and
smoke-stacks, making her power as she sails,
from the free sea air around her ! Think of
the boilerless locomotive running without a
fire-box or fireman, or without need of water,

tanks or coal-
chutes, gathering
from the air as
it passes the
power which
turns its driving-
wheels ! With
costless powet
think how trav<
and freight raU
must fall, brin l
ing bread and
meat m o r <
cheaply to our
tables and
cheaply manu¬
factured clothing
more cheaply to
our backs. Think
of the possi¬
bilities of aerial
navigation with
power which re¬
quires no heavy
machinery, no
storage batteries,
no coal — but I
will take up these
possibilities
later. If one
would practise
his imagination
on high flights,
let him ruminate
on the question, “ What will the world be
when power costs nothing?”

It is not until you begin to speculate upon
the changes that such a machine as Mr.
Tripier’s, if successful, will work, that you
begin to doubt and waver and feel the total
improbability of it all. The announcement
fairly shocks the hearer out of his hum¬
drum, and turns his well-regulated world
all topsy-turvy. And yet it is not difficult
to remember what people said when Morse
sent words by telegraph from Washington

462

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

to Baltimore, and when Bell spoke miles
over a copper wire.

“We have just begun discovering things
about the world,” says Mr. Tripler.

Then he begins at the beginning of liquid
air, and builds up his wonders step by step
until they have almost assumed the familiar
garb of present-day realities.

PREVIOUS ATTEMPTS TO LIQUEFY AIR.

Until twenty years ago, scientists thought
that air was a permanent gas—that it never
would be anything but a gas. They had
tried compressing it under thousands of
pounds of pressure to the square inch ; they
had tried heating it in reverberatory furnaces
and cooling it to the greatest known depths
of chemical cold ; but it remained air—a gas.
But, one day in 1877, Raoul Pictet submitted
oxygen gas to enormous pressure combined
with intense cold. The result was a few
precious drops of a clear, bluish liquid that
bubbled violently for a few seconds and then
passed away in a cold, white mist. M. Pictet
had proved that oxygen was not really a
permanent gas, but merely the vapour of a
mineral, as steam is the vapour of ice. Fifteen
years later, Olzewski, a Pole, of Warsaw,
succeeded in liquefying nitrogen, the other
constituent of air. About the same time
Professor Dewar, exploring independently
in the region of the North Pole of
temperature, not only liquefied oxygen and
nitrogen, but produced liquid air in some
quantity, and then actually froze it into a
mushy ice—air ice. The first ounce that
he made cost more than $3,000. A little
later he reduced the cost to $500 a pint, and
the whole scientific world rang with the
achievement. Yesterday, in Mr. Triplets
laboratory, I saw five gallons of liquid air
poured out like so much water. It was
made at the rate of fifty gallons a day,
and it cost, perhaps twenty cents a gallon.

Not long ago Mr. Tripler performed some
of his experiments before a meeting of dis¬
tinguished scientists at the University of the
City of New York. It so happened that
among those present was M. Pictet, the same
who first liquefied oxygen. When he saw
the prodigal way in which Mr. Tripler poured
out the precious liquid, he rose solemnly,
extended his arm across the table, and shook
Mr. Tripler’s hand. “It is a grand exhibi¬
tion,” he exclaimed, in French ; “ the grandest
exhibition I ever have seen.”

The principle involved in air liquefaction
is exceedingly simple, although its application
has sorely puzzled more than one wise man.
When a gas is compressed, it gives out its

heat. Anyone who has inflated a bicycle
tyre has felt the pump grow warm under his
hand. When the pressure is removed and
the gas expands, it must take back from
somewhere the heat which it gave out. That
is, it must produce cold.

Professor Dewar applied this simple
principle in all his experiments. He com¬
pressed nitrous oxide gas and ethylene gas,
and by expanding them suddenly in a
specially constructed apparatus, he produced
a degree of cold which liquefied air almost
instantly. But nitrous oxide and ethylene
are exceedingly expensive and dangerous,
and the product that Professor Dewar drew
off was worth more than its weight in gold ;
indeed, he could hardly afford enough of it
for his experiments.

At the earliest announcement of the lique¬
faction of air, Mr. Tripler had seen with the
quick imagination of the inventor its tre¬
mendous possibilities as a power-generator,
and he began his experiments immediately.
That was eight years ago. After futile
attempts to utilize various gases for the pro¬
duction of the necessary cold, it suddenly
occurred to him that air also was a gas.
Why not produce cold with it ?

“ The idea was so foolishly simple that I
could hardly bring myself to try it,” he said;
“ but I finally fitted up an apparatus, turned
on my air, and drew it out a liquid.”

And thus Mr. Tripler makes liquid air with
compressed air.

A NEAR VIEW OF THE ACTUAL MAKING.

Mr. Tripler’s work-room has more the
appearance of a machine shop than a labora¬
tory. It is large and airy, and is filled with
the litter of the busy inventor. The huge
steam boiler and compressor engine in one
end of the room strike one at first as
oddly disproportionate in size to the other
machinery. Apparently there is nothing for
all this power—it is a fifty-horse-power plant
—to work upon ; it is hard to realize that
the engine is drawing its raw material from
the very room in which we are walking and
breathing. Indeed, the apparatus by which
the air is actually liquefied is nothing but a
felt-and-canvas-covered tube about as large
around as a small barrel and perhaps fifteen
feet high. The lower end is set the height
of a man’s shoulders above the floor, and
there is a little spout below from which,
upon opening a frosty valve, the liquid air
may be seen bursting out through a cloud
of icy mist. I asked the old engineer who
has been with Mr. Tripler for years what was
inside of this mysterious swathed tube.

LIQUID AIR.

463

VACUUM PUMP, CONDENSER, AND LIQUEFIER USED BY MR. TRIPLER FOR MAKING LIQUID AIR BY THE USE OF LIQUID AIK.
About three gallons of liquid air, used in the engine, will produce ten gallons of liquid air from the liquefier, a surplusage of seven
gallons, produced without expense. A is the vacuum engine ; the cylinder next on the right is the condenser, and the tall box with
the steel cylinder next to it contains the liquefying apparatus. The canvas-covered pipe above the condenser is the liquefier used

when steam power furnishes the means of compression.

“ It’s full of pipes,” he said.

I asked Mr. Tripler the same question.

“ Pipes,” was his answer; “ pipes and coils
with specially constructed valves for the air
to go in, and pipes and coils for it to go out
—that’s all there is to it.”

So I investigated the pipes. Two sets
led back to the compressor engine, and
Mr. Tripler explained that they both carried
air under a pressure of about 2,5001b. to
the square inch. The heat caused by the
compression had been removed by passing
the pipes through coolers filled with running
water, so that the air entered the liquefier at
a temperature of about 5odeg. Fahrenheit.

“The first of these pipes contains the air to
be liquefied,” explained Mr. Tripler; “the
other carries the air which is to do the
liquefying. By turning this valve at the
bottom of the apparatus, I allow the air

to escape through a small hole in the
second pipe. It rushes out over the first
pipe, expanding rapidly and taking up heat.
You see, the liquefier is so tall that it acts as
a chimney, and the icy-cold air is drawn up
to the top, following the first pipe all the way
and greedily extracting its heat. This pro¬
cess continues until such a degree of cold
prevails in the first pipe that the air is liquefied
and drips down into a receptacle at the
bottom. Then all I have to do is to turn a
valve, and the liquid air pours out, ready for
use.”

Mr. Tripler says that it takes only ten or
fifteen minutes to get liquid air after the com¬
pressor engine begins to run. Sometimes the
cold air in the liquefier becomes so intense
that the liquid air actually freezes hard,
stopping the pipes. Mr. Tripler has never
tried, but he says he believes he could get

464

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

served,

LIQUID AIK BOILING ON A BLOCK OF ICE.

Compared with liquid air, the temperature of which is 3i2deg. below zero, ice at 3odeg. F. is as
hot as a furnace, and it produces the. same effect on liquid air that a hot fire would on water. The
tea-kettle is covered with white frost, moisture congealed from the atmosphere.

a degree of cold in his liquefier sufficient to
reduce hydrogen gas to liquid form.

This very simple process has given rise to
some curious questions on which future
scientists may work at their pleasure.

“ I’ve been puzzling myself a good deal,”
said Mr. Tripler, “over the question as to
what becomes of all the heat that I take out
of the air in the process of liquefaction. The
air goes in at a temperature of this room,
say, yodeg. Fahrenheit. At liquefaction it is
3i2deg. below zero. It has lost 382deg. of
heat in fifteen minutes, and you would expect
that the air which rises from the top of my
apparatus would be red hot; but it isn’t, it’s
cold. Now, where did all that heat go ? A
little of it, I know, becomes electricity, be¬
cause the liquid air is always more or less
charged when it comes out, but that only
accounts for a small part of the whole.”

And then Mr. Tripler, who has the true
speculative imagination of the scientist, which
so often thiills the layman with its sudden
reaches into the deep things of Nature,
asked suddenly : “ Where does heat go to,
anyway? Did you ever think of that?
Every transfer of energy tends to lower tem¬
perature. Every time that heat, for instance,
is transferred into electricity, every time that
electricity is transferred into heat, there is a
loss—a leakage. Scientists used to think
that there could be qo real loss of energy—

that it was all con-
alt h o u g h
changed in form.
'They have given up
that theory, at least
so far as this earth
is concerned. We
are gradually cooling
off, and some time
the cold will be so
great that the air
will all fall in liquid
drops like rain and
freeze into a quartz¬
like mineral. Then
the hydrogen gas
will liquefy and
freeze ; then helium
gas, and the world
will be nothing but
a dead, inert block
of mineral, without
a vestige of the vibra¬
tions which cause
heat. Now, where
does all this heat
g° ?

“And when you come to think of it,” Mr.
Tripler continued, “ we’re a good deal nearer
the cold end of the thermometer than we
are to the hot end. I suppose that once we
had a temperature equal to that of the sun,
say io,ooodeg. Fahrenheit. We have fallen
to an average of about 6odeg. in this latitude;
that is, we have lost 9,94odeg. We don’t
yet know just how cold the absolute cold
really is—the final cold, the cold of inter¬
stellar space—but Professor Dewar thinks it
is about 461 deg. below zero, Fahrenheit. If
it is, we have only a matter of 52ideg. yet
to lose, which is small compared with 9,940.
Still, I don’t think we have any cause to
worry ; it may take a few billion years for
the world to reach absolute cold.”

Mr. Tripler handles his liquid air with a
freedom that is awe-inspiring. He uses a
battered saucepan in which to draw it out of
the liquefier, and he keeps it in a double iron
can, not unlike an ice-cream freezer, covering
the top with a wad of coarse felting to keep
out as much heat as possible. “You can
handle liquid air with perfect safety,” he
said ; “ you can do almost anything with it
that you can with water, except to shut it up
tight.”

This is not at all surprising when one
remembers that a single cubic foot of liquid
air contains 800 cubic feet of air at ordinary
pressure -— 4 whole bedrooni full reduced

LIQUID AIR.

465

to the space of a large pail. Its desire to
expand, therefore, is something quite irre¬
pressible. But so long as it is left open, it
simmers contentedly for hours, finally disap¬
pearing whence it came.

Mr. Tripler showed me a Dewar bulb—an
odd glass apparatus invented by Professor
Dewar—in which liquid air in small quanti¬
ties can be kept safely for some time. It
consists of two vessels of glass, one within
the other, having a high vacuum between
the walls and joined in a common neck at
the top. The vacuum prevents the passage
of heat, so that the evaporation of the liquid
air in the inner tube is reduced to a mini¬
mum. The neck of the bulb is, of course,
left open to the air, although the cold, heavy
mist of evaporation acts somewhat as a
stopper. Mr. Tripler has
sent liquid air in open cans
to Boston, Washington, and
Philadelphia. “ But it is my
belief,” says he, “ that there
will be little need of trans¬
porting it; it can be made
quickly and cheaply anywhere
on earth.”

CURIOUS PROPERTIES OF
LIQUID AIR.

Liquid air has many curious

properties. It is nearly as heavy as water,
and quite as clear and limpid, although,
when seen in the open air, it is always
muffled in the dense white mist of evapo¬
ration that wells up over the edge of the
receptacle in which it stands, and rolls out
along the floor in beautiful billowy clouds.
(See the illustration on the first page of
this article.) No other substance in the
world, unless it be liquid hydrogen, is as cold
as liquid air, and yet Mr. Tripler dips his hand
into it fearlessly, taking care, however, to re¬
move it instantly. A few drops retained on
a man’s hand will sear the flesh like a white-
hot iron ; and yet it does not burn — it
merely kills. For this reason it is admirably
adapted to surgical uses where cauterization
is necessary : it will eat out diseased flesh
much more quickly and
safely than caustic potash
or nitric acid, and it can
be controlled absolutely.
Indeed, Mr. Tripler has
actually furnished a well-
known New York physician
with enough to sear out a
cancer and entirely cure a
difficult case. And it is
cheaper than any cauter¬
izing chemical in use.

It is difficult to con¬
ceive of the cold of liquid
air. Mr. Tripler performs
a number of striking ex¬
periments to illustrate its
low temperature. He par¬
tially fills a tin tea-kettle
with it and sets it on a cake
of ice, as shown in the illus¬
tration on the opposite
page, where the air at once
begins to boil violently,
throwing off a fierce white
vapour. The temperature
of the ice is about 3^deg.
Fahrenheit, while the tem¬
perature of the liquid air
is 3i2deg. below zero. In
other words, ice is 34qdeg.
warmer than liquid air ;
consequently it makes the
air boil.

Mr. Tripler set the tea¬
kettle over a hot gas-flame,
but it boiled only a shade
more vigorously than it
did on the ice, and a
thick sheet of frost actually
formed on the bottom

LIQUID AIR OVER FIRE.

Liquid air is so cold that, when placed over a hot gas-stove, frost not only coats the entire
receptacle in which it is contained, but a thick sheet of frost gathers on the bottom
directly over the blaze.

Vol. xvii.^-59.

466

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

of the kettle where the flame played most
fiercely.

Alcohol freezes at so low a temperature
—202deg. below zero—that it is used in
thermometers to register all degrees of cold.
But it will not
measure the fearful
cold of liquid air.

I saw a cup of liquid
air poured into a
tumbler partly filled
with alcohol. Mr.

Tripler stirred it up
with a glass rod. It
boiled violently for
a few minutes, and
then it thickened up
suddenly until it
looked like sugar
syrup ; then it froze
solid, and Mr. Tripler
held it up in a long
steaming icicle.

Mercury is frozen
until it is as hard as
granite. Mr. Tripler
made a little paste¬
board box the shape
of a hammer-head,
filled it with mer¬
cury, suspended a
rod in it for a handle,
and then placed it
in a pan of liquid air.

In a few minutes it was frozen so solid that
it could be used for driving nails into a hard¬
wood block. What would the scientists of
twenty-five years ago have said if anyone
had predicted the use of a mercury hammer
for driving nails ?

Liquid air freezes other metals just as
thoroughly as it freezes mercury. Iron and
steel become as brittle as glass. A tin cup
which has been filled
with liquid air for a
few minutes will, if
dropped, shatter into
a hundred little frag¬
ments like thin glass.

Copper, gold, and
all precious metals,
on the other hand,
are made more
pliable, so that even
a thick piece can be
bent readily between
the fingers.

I saw an egg boiled
— or frozen — in

AN ICICLE OF FROZEN ALCOHOL.

An alcohol thermometer is supposed to measure all degrees of
cold, but liquid air freezes alcohol in a few seconds to a hard
lump of ice.

DRIVING A NAIL WITH A HAMMER MADE OF MERCURY
FROZEN BY LIQUID AIR.

liquid air. It came out so hard that a sharp
blow of a hammer was required to crack it, and
the inside of it had the peculiar crystalline
appearance of quartz—a kind of mineral egg.
“ The time is certainly coming,” says Mr.

Tripler, “ when every
great packing-house,
every market, every
hospital, every hotel,
and many private
houses will have
plants for making
liquid air. The
machinery is not
expensive, it can be
set up in a tenth
part of the space
occupied by an
a m m o n i a i c e-
machine, and its
product can be easily
handled and placed
where it is most
needed. Ten years
from now hotel
guests will call for
cool rooms in sum¬
mer with as much
certainty of getting
them as they now
call for warm rooms
in winter.

“ And think of what
unspeakable value
the liquid air will be in hospitals. In the
first place it is absolutely pure air ; in the
second place the proportion of oxygen is
very large, so that it is vitalizing air. Why,
it will not be necessary for the tired-out man
of the future to make his usual summer trip
to the mountains. He can have his ozone
and his cool heights served to him in his
room. Cold is always a disinfectant; some
disease germs, like
yellow fever, it kills
outright. Think of
the value of a c cold
ward ’ in an hospital,
where the air could
be kept absolutely
fresh, and where
nurses and friends
could visit the
patient without fear
of infection.”

Suppose, also, as
Mr. Tripler does,
that every war-ship
could have a liquid

467

LIQUID AIR.

air plant. It would not only operate the
ship’s propellers, but it would be absolutely
invaluable in cooling off the guns after firing,
in saving the lives of the sailors in the
sweltering sick bay, and, indeed, in firing
the cannon.

Air is composed of twenty-two parts of
oxygen and seventy-eight of nitrogen. Oxygen
liquefies at 3oodeg. below zero, and nitrogen
at 32odeg. Consequently, when in the form
of liquid air, nitrogen evaporates the more
rapidly. This differ¬
ence is shown by Mr.

Tripler by pouring a
quantity of the liquid
air into a large glass
vessel, partly filled
with water. For a
moment it floats,
boiling with great
violence, liquid air
being slightly lighter
than water. When,
however, the nitrogen
has all boiled away,
the liquid oxygen,
being heavier than
water, sinks in beauti-
silvery bubbles
which boil violently
until they disappear.

A few drops of liquid
air thrown into water
will instantly freeze
for themselves little
boats of ice, which
sail around merrily
until the liquid air
boils away.

In this way liquid
air left exposed be¬
comes stronger in
proportion of oxygen
—and oxygen in such
a concentrated form
is a very wonderful
substance. For in¬
stance, ordinary
woollen felt can hardly be persuaded to
burn even in a hot fire, but if it is dipped
in this concentrated oxygen, or even in liquid
air, and lighted, it will explode and burn
with all the terrible violence of gun-cotton.
Indeed, liquid air will burn steel itself. Mr.
Tripler demonstrates this most strikingly by
making a tumbler of ice, and filling it half
full of liquid oxygen. Then he fastens a
burning match to a bit of steel spring and
dips it into the liquid air, where the steel

burns exactly like a greasy bit of pork rind
—sputtering, and giving out a glare of
dazzling brilliancy, as may be seen in the
following illustration.

The property of liquid oxygen to promote
rapid combustion will make it invaluable, Mr.
Tripler thinks, for use as an explosive. A
bit of oily waste, soaked in liquid air, was
placed inside of a small iron tube, open at both
ends. This was laid inside of a larger and
stronger pipe, also open at both ends. When
the waste was ignited
by a fuse, the ex¬
plosion was so terrific
that it not only blew
the smaller tube to
pieces, but it burst
a great hole in the
outer tube. Mr. Trip¬
ler thinks that by
the proper mixture of
liquid air with cotton,
wool, glycerine, or
any other hydro¬
carbon, an explosive
of enormous power
could be made. And
unlike dynamite or
nitro - glycerine, it
could be handled like
so much sand, there
being not the slightest
danger of explosion
from concussion,
although, of course,
it must be kept away
from fire. It will take
many careful experi¬
ments to ascertain
the best method for
making this new ex¬
plosive, but think of
the reward for its
successful applica¬
tion ! The expense
of heavy ammunition
and its difficult trans¬
portation and storage
would be entirely done away with. No more
would war-ships be loaded down with cum¬
bersome explosives, and no more could
there be terrible powder explosions on ship¬
board, because the ammunition could be
made for the guns as it was needed, a liquid-
air plant on ship-board furnishing all the
necessary materials. But all other uses of
liquid air fade into insignificance when com¬
pared with its utilization as power for running
machinery, of which I have already spoken.

LIQUID AIR IN WATER.

Liquid air is slightly lighter than water. When a small
quantity of it is poured into a tall flask of water, it floats for a
few seconds; and then the nitrogen boils away, leaving the
liquid oxygen, which, being slightly heavier than water, sinks
in big silvery bubbles.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

/,68

“ My greatest object is the production of
a power-giving substance,” says Mr. Tripler;

“ if you can get cheap power, all other
problems are solved.”

And that is why Mr. Tripler has spent so
much time on the little engine in his labora¬
tory which runs
by liquid air. The
reasons for the
supremacy of this
strange liquid
over steam are
exceedingly
simple. In the
first place, liquid
air has about a
hundred times
the expansive
power of steam.

In the second
place, it begins to
produce power
the instant it is
exposed to the
atmosphere. In
making steam,
water has first to
be raised to a
temperature of
212 deg. Fahren¬
heit. That is, if
the water as it
enters the boiler
has a temperature
of 5odeg., i62deg.
of heat must be
put into it before
it will yield a
single pound of
pressure. After
that every addi¬
tional degree of heat produces one pound
of pressure, whereas every degree of heat
applied to liquid air gives twenty pounds of
pressure.

“ Liquid air can be applied to any engine,”
says Mr. Tripler, “and used as easily and as
safely as steam. You need no large boiler,
no water, no coal, and you have no waste.
The heat of the atmosphere, as I have said
before, does all the work of expansion.”

The advantages of compactness and the
ease with which liquid air can be made to

produce power at once suggested its use in
all kinds of motor vehicles, and a firm in
Philadelphia is now making extensive experi¬
ments looking to its use. A satisfactory
application will do away with the present
huge, misshapen, machinery-laden automo¬
biles, and make
possible small,
light, and inex¬
pensive * motors.

Mr. Tripler
believes firmly
that liquid air
makes aerial navi¬
gation a distinct
probability. The
great problem in
the past has been
the i m m ense
weight of the
steam or electri¬
cal machinery
necessary to oper¬
ate the air screws.
With liquid air
no heat of any
kind save that of
the sun would be
required ; the
boiler could be
made of light
tubing, and much
of the other
machinery of alu¬
minium, so that
the weight would
be scarcely
noticeable.

Much has yet
to be done be¬
fore liquid air
becomes the revolutionizing ^ power which
Mr. Tripler prophesies. This much is
certain : A machine has been built which
will make liquid air in large quantities at
small expense, and an engine has been suc¬
cessfully run by liquid air. Beyond these
two actual accomplishments, Mr. Tripler has
yet to perfect his machinery for producing

liquid air without expense. When this is

accomplished, liquid air must certainly take
its place as the foremost source of the world’s
power-supply.

BURNING STEEL IN AN ICE TUMBLER PARTLY FILLED WITH LIQUID AIK.

A point of interest in this experiment is the contrast in temperatures ;
steel is burning at 3,soodeg. F. in an ice receptacle containing liquid air
at 3i2deg. below zero.

OU can’t be too careful who
you marry,” said Mr. Brisher,
and pulled thoughtfully with
a fat-wristed hand at the lank
moustache that hides his
want of chin.

“ That’s why-I ventured.

“ Yes,” said Mr. Brisher, with a solemn
light in his bleary, blue-grey eyes, moving
his head expressively and breathing intimately
at me. “ There’s lots as ’ave ’ad a try at
me—many as I could name in this town—
but none ’ave done it—none.”

I surveyed the flushed countenance, the
equatorial expansion, the masterly carelessness
of his attire, and heaved a sigh to think that
by reason of the unworthiness of women he
must needs be the last of his race.

“ I was a smart young chap when I was
younger,” said Mr. Brisher. “ I ’ad my
work cut out. But I was very careful—very.
And I got through ...”

He leant over the taproom table and
thought visibly on the subject of my trust¬
worthiness. I was relieved at last by his
confidence.

“ I was engaged once,” he said at last,
with a reminiscent eye on the shuv-a’penny
board.

“ So near as that ? ”

He looked at me. “So near as that.

Fact is-” He looked about him, brought

his face close to mine, lowered his voice, and
fenced off an unsympathetic world with a
grimy hand. “ If she ain’t dead or married
to someone else or anything—I’m engaged
still. Now.” He confirmed this statement
with nods and facial contortions. “Still”
he said, ending the pantomime, and broke
into a reckless smile at my surprise. “Me!”

“ Run away,” he explained further, with
coruscating eyebrows. “ Come ’ome.”

“That ain’t all.”

“You’d ’ardly believe it,” he said, “but
I found a treasure. Found a regular
treasure.”

I fancied this was irony, and did not,
perhaps, greet it with proper surprise. “ Yes,”
he said, “ I found a treasure. And come
’ome. I tell you I could surprise you with
things that has happened to me.” And for
some time he was content to repeat that he
had found a treasure—and left it.

1 made no vulgar clamour for a story, but
1 became attentive to Mr. Brisher’s bodily
needs, and presently I led him back to the
deserted lady.

“She was a nice girl,” he said—a little
sadly, I thought. “And respectable.”

Fie raised his eyebrows and tightened his

470

THE STRAND

mouth to express extreme respectability—
beyond the likes of us elderly men.

“ It was a long way from ’ere. Essex, in
fact. Near Colchester. It was when I was
up in London—in the buildin’ trade. I was
a smart young chap then, I can tell you.
Slim. ’Ad best clo’es ’s good as anybody.
’At— silk ’at, mind you.” Mr. Brisher’s hand
shot above his head towards the infinite to
indicate a silk hat of the highest. “Umbrella
—nice umbrella with a ’orn ’andle. Savin’s.
Very careful I was. ...”

He was pensive for a little while, thinking,
as we must all come to think sooner or later,
of the vanished brightness of youth. But
he refrained, as one may do in taprooms,
from the obvious moral.

“I got to know ’er through a chap what
was engaged to ’er sister. She was stopping
in London for a bit with a naunt that ’ad a
’am an’ beef shop. This aunt was very
particular—they was all very particular
people, all ’er people was—and wouldn’t let
’er sister go out with this feller except ’er
other sister, my girl that is, went with them.
So ’e brought me into it, sort of to ease the
crowding. We used to go walks in Battersea
Park of a Sunday afternoon. Me in my
topper, and ’im in ’is ; and the girls—well
stylish. There wasn’t many in Battersea Park
’ad the larf of us. She wasn’t what you’d
call pretty, but a nicer girl I never met. /
liked ’er from the start, and, well—though I
say it who shouldn’t—she liked me. You
know ’ow it is, I dessay ? ”

I pretended I did.

“ And when this chap married ’er sister —
’im and me was great friends—what must ’e
do but arst me down to Colchester, close by
where She lived. Naturally I was introjuced
to ’er people, and well, very soon, her and
me was engaged.”

He repeated “ engaged.”

“She lived at ’ome with ’er father and
mother, quite the lady, in a very nice little
’ouse with a garden—and remarkable respect¬
able people they was. Rich you might call
’em a’most. They owned their own ’ouse—
got it out of the Building Society, and cheap
because the chap who had it before was a
burglar and in prison—and they ’ad a bit of
free’old land, and some cottages and money
’nvested—all nice and tight: they was what
you’d call snug and warm. I tell you, I
was On. Furniture too. Why ! They ’ad a
pianner. Jane—’er name was Jane—used to
play it Sundays, and very nice she played
too. There wasn’t ’ardly a ’im toon in the
book she couldn't play ....

MAGAZINE.

“ Many’s the evenin’ we’ve met and sung
’ims there, me and ’er and the family.

“’Er father was quite a leadin’ man in
chapel. You should ha’ seen him Sundays,
interruptin’ the minister and givin’ out ’ims.
He had gold spectacles, I remember, and
used to look over ’em at you while he sang
hearty—he was always great on singing ’earty
to the Lord—and when he got out o’ toon
’arf the people went after ’im—always. ’E
was that sort of man. And to walk be’ind
’im in ’is nice black clo’es—’is ’at was a
brimmer—made one regular proud to be
engaged to such a father-in-law. And when
the summer came I went down there and
stopped a fortnight.

“ Now, you know there was a sort of Itch,”
said Mr. Brisher. “We wanted to marry,
me and Jane did, and get things settled.
But ’E said I ’ad to get a proper position
first. Consequently there was a Itch. Con¬
sequently, when I went down there, I was
anxious to show that I was a good useful sort
of chap like. Show I could do pretty nearly
everything like. See ? ”

I made a sympathetic noise.

“ And down at the bottom of their garden
was a bit of wild part like. So I says to im
4 Why don’t you ’ave a rockery ’ere?’ I say>.

4 It ’ud look nice.’

“ c Too much expense,’ he says.

“ 4 Not a penny,” says I. ‘ I’m a dab at
rockeries. Lem me make you one.’ You see,
I’d ’elped my brother make a rockery in the
beer garden be’ind ’is tap, so I knew ’ow to
do it to rights. ‘ Lemme make you one,’ I
says. 4 It’$ ’olidays, but I’m that sort of chap,

I ’ate doing nothing,’ I says. ‘ I’ll make you
one to rights.’ And the long and the short
of it was, he said I might.

“ And that’s ’ow I come on the treasure.”

“ What treasure ? ” I asked.

“ Why ! ” said Mr. Brisher, “ the treasure
I’m telling you about, what’s the reason why
I never married.”

“What!—a treasure—dug up?”

“ Yes — buried wealth — treasure trove.
Come out of the ground. What I kept on
saying—regular treasure . . . . ” He looked
at me with unusual disrespect.

“ It wasn’t more than a foot deep, not
the top of it,” he said. “ I’d ’ardly got thirsty
like, before I come on the corner.”

“ Go on,” I said. “ I didn’t understand.”

“ Why ! Directly 1 ’it the box I knew it
was treasure. A sort of instinct told me.
Something seemed to shout inside of me—
4 Now’s your chance—lie low.’ It’s lucky I
knew the laws of treasure trove or I’d ’ave

MR. BRISHER S TREASURE .

47 i

been shoutin’ there and then. I daresay you
know-? ”

“ Crown bags it,” I said, “ all but one per
cent. Go on. It’s a shame. What did you
do?”

“ Uncovered the top of the box. There
wasn’t anybody in the garden or about like.
Jane was ’elping ’er mother do the ’ouse. I
was excited—I tell you. I tried the lock
and then gave a whack at the hinges. Open
it came. Silver coins—full ! Shining. It
made me tremble to see ’em. And jest
then — I’m blessed if the dustman didn’t
come round the back of the ’ouse. It
pretty nearly gave me ’eart disease to think

so to speak, was laughing on its own account
till I had it hid. I tell you I was regular
scared like at my luck. I jest thought that
it ’ad to be kep’ close and that was all.
‘ Treasure,’ I kep’ whisperin’ to myself,
‘ Treasure ’ and ‘ ’undreds of pounds,
’undreds, ’undreds of pounds.’ Whispering
to myself like, and digging like blazes. It
seemed to me the box was regular sticking
out and showing, like your legs do under the
sheets in bed, and I went and put all the
earth I’d got out of my ’ole for the rockery
slap on top of it. I was in a sweat. And
in the midst of it all out toddles ’er father.
He didn’t say anything to me, jest stood

IT PRETTY NEARLY GAVE ME ’EART DISEASE.”

what a fool I was to ’ave that money show¬
ing. And directly after I ’eard the chap
next door—’e was ’olidaying too—I ’eard him
watering ’is beans. If only ’e’d looked over
the fence ! ”

“ What did you do ? ”

“ Kicked the lid on again and covered it
up like a shot, and went on digging about a
yard away from it—like mad. And my face,

behind me and stared, but Jane tole me
afterwards when he went indoors, ’e says,
‘ That there jackanapes of yours, Jane ’—he
always called me a jackanapes some’ow—
‘knows ’ow to put ’is back into it after all.’
Seemed quite impressed by it, ’e did.”

“How long was the box?” I asked,
suddenly.

“ ’ Ow long ? ” said Mr. Brisher.

4 '

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

“ Yes—in length ? ”

“ Oh ! ’bout so—by so.” Mr. Brisher
indicated a moderate-sized trunk.

“Tull?” said I.

“Full up of silver coins—arf-crowns, I
believe.”

“ Why ! ” I cried, “ that would mean—
hundreds of pounds.”

“ Thousands,” said Mr. Brisher, in a sort
of sad calm. “ I calc’lated it out.”

“But how did they get there ? ”

“ All I know is what I found. What I
thought at the time was this. The chap
who’s owned the ’ouse before ’er father ’d
been a regular
slap - up burglar.

What you’d call
a ’igh-class crimi¬
nal. Used to
drive ’is trap—
like Peace did.”

Mr. Brisher medi¬
tated on the diffi¬
culties of narra¬
tion and embarked
on a complicated
parenthesis. “ I
don’t know if I
told you it’d been
a burglar’s ’ouse
before it was my
girl’s father’s, and
I knew ’e’d rob¬
bed a mail train
once, I did know
that. It seemed
to me-”

“That’s very
likely,” I said.

“ But what did
you do ? ”

“Sweated,” said
Mr. Brisher.

“ Regular run orf
me. All that
morning,” said
Mr. Brisher, “ I
was at it, pretend¬
ing to make that
rockery and wondering what I should
do. I’d ’ave told ’er father p’r’aps, only I
was doubtful of ’is honesty—I was afraid he
might rob me of it like, and give it up to the
authorities—and besides, considering I was
marrying into the family, I thought it would
be nicer like if it came through me. Put me
on a better footing, so to speak. Well, I ’ad
three days before me left of my ’olidays, so
there wasn’t no hurry, so I covered it up and

went on digging, and tried to puzzle out ’ow
I was to make sure of it. Only I couldift.

“I thought,” said Mr. Brisher, “and I
thought. Once I got regular doubtful
whether I’d seen it or not, and went down to
it and ’ad it uncovered again, just as her ma
came out to ’ang up a bit of washin’ she’d
done. Jumps again ! Afterwards I was just
thinking I’d ’ave another go at it, when Jane
comes to tell me dinner was ready. ‘ You’ll
want it,’ she said, ‘ seeing all the ’ole you’ve
dug.’

“ I was in a regular daze all dinner, won¬
dering whether that chap next door wasn’t

over the fence and
filling ’is pockets.
But in the after¬
noon I got easier
in my mind -— it
seemed to me it
must ’ave been
there so long it
was pretty sure to
stop a bit longer
-—and I tried to
get up a bit of a
discussion to dror
out the old man
and see what ’e
thought of trea¬
sure trove.”

Mr. Brisher
paused, and affec¬
ted amusement at
the memory.

“ The old man
was a scorcher,”
he said; “a regu¬
lar scorcher.”

“ What ! ” said

I; “didhe--?”

“It was like
this,” explained
Mr. Brisher, lay¬
ing a friendly
hand on my arm
and breathing into
my face to calm
me. “ Just to dror
’im out, I told a story of a chap I said
I knew — pretendin’, you know — who’d
found a sovring in a novercoat ’e’d borrowed.
I said ’e stuck to it, .but I said I wasn’t sure
whether that was right or not. And then the
old man began. Lor S ’e did let me ’ave
it! ” Mr. Brisher affected an insincere amuse¬
ment. “’E was, well- what you might

call a rare ’and at snacks. Said that was the
sort of friend ’e’d naturally expect me to ’ave.

“ *E DID LET ME ’AVE IT.”

MR. BR 1 SHER'S TREASURE.

473

Said ’e’d naturally expect that from the friend
of a out-of-work loafer who took up with
daughters who didn’t belong to ’im. There !
I couldn’t tell you ’ arf ’e said. ’E went on
most outrageous. I stood up to ’im about it,
just to dror ’im out. 'Wouldn’t you stick to
a arf-sov’, not if you found it in the. street?’
I says. ' Certainly not,’ ’e says ; 'certainly I
wouldn’t.’ 'What ! not if you found it as a
sort of treasure?’ ‘Young man/ ’e says,

' there’s ’i’er ’thority than mine—Render unto
Caesar’—what is it? Yes. Well, he fetched
up that. A rare ’and at ’itting you over the
’ed with the Bible, was the old man. And
so he went on. ’E got to such Snacks about
me at last I couldn’t stand it. I’d promised
Jane not to answer ’im back, but it got a bit
too thick. I—I give it ’im . .

Mr. Brisher, by means of enigmatical face-
work, tried to make me think he had had the
best of that argument, but I knew better.

"I went out in a ’uff at last. But not
before I was pretty sure I .’ad to lift that
treasure by myself. The only thing that kep’
me up was thinking ’ow I’d take it out of ’im
when I ’ad the cash ...”

There was a lengthy pause.

“ Now, you’d ’ardly believe it, but all them
three days I never ’ad a chance at the blessed
treasure, never got out not even a ’arf-crown.
There was always a Somethink—always.

" ’Stonishing thing it isn’t thought of
more,” said Mr. Brisher. " Finding treasure’s
no great shakes. It’s gettin’ it. I don’t
suppose I slep’ a wink any of those nights,
thinking where I was to take it, what
I was to do with it, ’ow I was to explain it.
It made me regular ill. And days I was
that dull, it made Jane regular ’uffy. ' You
ain’t the same chap you was in London,’ she
says, several times. I tried to lay it on ’er
father and ’is Snacks, but bless you, she knew
better. What must she ’ave but that I’d got
another girl on my mind ! Said I wasn’t
I rue. Well, we had a bit of a row. But
I was that set on the Treasure, I didn’t
seem to mind a bit Anything she said.

" Well, at last I got a sort of plan. I was
always a bit good at planning, though carry¬
ing out isn’t so much in my line. I thought
it all out and settled on a plan. First, I was
going to take all my pockets full of these

’ere ’arf-crowns—see ?—and afterwards-

as I shall tell.

“Well, I got to that state I couldn’t think
of getting at the Treasure again in the
daytime, so I waited until the night before I
had to go, and then, when everything was
still, up I gets and slips down to the back

Vol. xvii.— 60 .

door, meaning to get my pockets full. What
must I do in the scullery but kill over a pail?
Up gets ’er father with a gun-^’e was a light
sleeper was ’er father, and very suspicious—
and there was me : ’ad to explain I’d come
down to the pump for a drink because my
water-bottle was bad. ’E didn’t let me off
a Snack or two over that bit, you lav a
bob.”

" And you mean to say-—” I began.

“Wait a bit,” said Mr. Brisher. “I say,
I’d made my plan. That put the kybosh on
one bit, but it didn’t ’urt the general scheme
not a bit. I went and I finished that rockery
next day, as though there wasn’t a Snack in
the world ; cemented over the stones, I did,
dabbed it green and everythink. I put a
dab of green just to show where the box
was. They all came and looked at it, and
said ’ow nice it was—even ’e was a bit softer
like to see it, and all he said was, ' It’s a
pity you can’t always work like that, then
you might get something definite to do,’ he
says.

“ ‘ Yes,’ I says—I couldn’t ’elp it—' I put
a lot in that rockery,’ I says, like that.
See? ‘I put a lot in that rockery’—mean¬
ing-”

“ I see,” said I—for Mr. Brisher is apt to
over-elaborate his jokes.

“’E didn’t,” said Mr. Brisher. “Not
then, anyhow.

“Ar’ever — after all that was over, off
I set for London. . . . Orf I set for
London. ...”

Pause.

“On’y I wasn’t going to no London,” said
Mr. Brisher, with sudden animation, and
thrusting his face into mine. “ No fear!
What do you think ?

“ I didn’t go no further than Colchester—
not a yard.

“I’d left the spade just where I could find
it. I’d got everything planned and right. I
’ired a little trap in Colchester, and pretended
I wanted to go to Ipswich and stop the
night, and come back next day, and the
chap I ’ired it from made me leave two
sovrings on it right away, and off I set.

“ I didn’t go to no Ipswich neither.

“ Midnight the ’orse and trap was ’itched
by the little road that ran by the cottage
where ’e lived—not sixty yards off, it wasn’t—
and I was at it like a good ’un. It was jest
the night for such games—overcast-—but a
trifle too ’ot, and all round the sky there
was summer lightning and presently a
thunderstorm. Down it came. First big
drops in a sort of fizzle, then ’ail. I kep’ on.

474

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

[ whacked at it—I didn’t dream the old man
would ’ear. I didn’t even trouble to go
quiet with the : spade, and the thunder and
lightning and ’ail seemed to excite me like.
I shouldn’t wonder if I was singing. I got
so ’ard at it I clean forgot the thunder and
the ’orse and trap. I precious soon got the
box showing, and started to lift it . . .”

“ Heavy ?” I said.

“ I couldn’t no more lift it than fly. I
was sick. I’d never thought of that! 1 got

regular wild—I tell you, I cursed. I got
sort of outrageous. I didn’t think of dividing
it like for the minute, and even then I
couldn’t ’ave took money about loose in a
trap. I hoisted one end sort of wild like,
and over the whole show went with a

think what I was doing. I never stopped—
not even to fill my pockets I went over the
fence like a shot, and ran like one o’clock
for the trap, cussing and swearing as I went.
I was in a state. . . .

“ And will you believe me, when I got to
the place where I’d left the ’orse and trap,
they’d gone. Orf ! When I saw that I ’asn’t
a cuss left for it. I jest danced on the grass,
and when I’d danced enough I started oft' to
London. I was done.”

Mr. Brisher was pensive for an interval.
“ 1 was done,” he repeated, very bitterly.

“ Well ? ” I said.

“ That’s all,” said Mr. Brisher.

“ You didn’t go back ? ”

“No fear. I’d ’ad enough of that blooming

“ THERE WAS THE OLD MAN COMING DOWN THE GARDEN.

tremenjous noise. Perfeck smash of silver.
And then right on the heels of that, Flash !
Lightning like the day ! and there was the
back door open and the old man coming
down the garden with ’is blooming old gun.
He wasn’t not a ’undred yards away !

“I tell you I was that upset—I didn’t

treasure, any’ow for a bit. Besides, I didn’t
know what was done to chaps who tried to
collar a treasure trove. I started off for
London there and then. . . .”

“ And you nevef went back ? ”

“ Never.”

“ But about Jane ? Did you write ? ”

475

MR. BRISHER'S TREASURE.

“ Three times, fishing like. And no
answer. We’d parted in a bit of a ’uff on
account of ’er being jealous. So that I
couldn’t make out for certain what it meant.

“ 1 didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even
know whether the old man knew it was me.
I sort of kep’ an eye open on papers to see
when he’d give up that treasure to the Crown,
as I hadn’t a doubt ’e would considering ’ow
respectable ’e’d always been.”

“ And did he ? ”

Mr. Brisher pursed his mouth and moved
his head slowly from side to side. “Not
V///,” he said.

“Jane was a nice girl,” he said, “a
thorough nice girl mind you, if jealous, and
there’s no knowing I mightn’t ’ave gone back
to ’er after a bit. I thought if he didn’t give

up the treasure I might ’ave a sort of ’old on
• • • • Well, one day I looks as usual
under Colchester—and there I saw ’is name.
What for d’yer think ? ”

I could not guess.

Mr. Brisher’s voice sank to a whisper, and
once more he spoke behind his hand. His
manner was suddenly suffused with a positive
joy. “Issuing counterfeit coins,” he said.
“ Counterfeit coins ! ”

“ You don’t mean to say-? ”

“ Yes—-It. Bad. Quite a long case they
made of it. But they got ’im, though he
dodged tremenjous. Traced ’is ’aving passed,
oh !—nearly a dozen bad ’arf-crowns.”

“ And you didn’t-? ”

“No fear. And it didn’t do 'im much
good to say it was treasure trove.”

From Behind the Speaker's Chair.

THERE is a general impression
a that Lord Rosebery’s accession
surprise, to the Premiership in 1894 was
directly and absolutely due to
Mr. Gladstone’s nomination. The fact is
the appointment was made on the personal
initiative of the Queen. The selection of
the Prime Minister remains, even in these
democratic days, the absolute prerogative of
the Sovereign. But the prerogative is not now
enforced in antagonism
to the obvious drift of
popular feeling.

The last time it was
exercised in anything
approaching autocratic
manner happened sixty-
five years ago, when
William IV. was
King. When Lord
Althorpe (of whom we
had in the House of
Commons a singularly
close replica in the per¬
son of Lord Hartington)
went to the House of
Lords it became neces¬
sary to appoint a suc¬
cessor to the leadership
in the House of Com¬
mons. Lord John Rus¬
sell seemed inevitable.

But it was known that
the King did not like
him, distrusting the
Radical element he represented. Lord Mel¬
bourne cheerily undertook to put the matter
through. He drove down to Brighton, where
the King was staying, suggested the appoint¬
ment, and was dumfounded by the reply.
The King commanded him to give up the
seals of office, and intrusted to his care, on
the return journey to London, a letter com¬
manding the Duke of Wellington to form a
Ministry.

In the second year of the Queen’s
reign a procedure only less
arbitrary took place in connec¬
tion with the Premiership. Lord
Melbourne, defeated on the Jamaica Bill,
resigned. The Queen, like her uncle, turned
to the Duke of Wellington, who recom¬
mended Sir Robert Peel. Sir Robert insisted
as a condition of his undertaking the Govern¬
ment that the Whig Ladies-in-Waiting, who

(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)

surrounded the Queen, should be dismissed.
Her Majesty resented this dictation, with the
result that Lord Melbourne came back with
foredoomed endeavour to carry on an im¬
possible Government.

On the eve of the twentieth
in 1880. century neither King nor Queen
would think of pitting preference
for Bedchamber women against the claims
to the Premiership of a popular states¬
man. That the ten¬

dency to enforce the
prerogative in spite of
popular feeling is
nevertheless ineradic¬
able in the Royal
breast was testified so
recently as 1880. The
General Election had
been won for the
Liberals by the magic
of one name, the tire¬
less energy, the bound-

LORD ALTHORPE (AFTER H.K.B.).

THE BED¬
CHAMBER
WOMEN.

WILLIAM IV. (AFTER H.K.B.).

less genius of one man. Lord Beaconsfield
overthrown, Mr. Gladstone was inevitable.
But the Queen did not disguise her
hankering after another. She sent for
Lord Hartington, and invited him to form a
Ministry. He pointed out the impossibility
of ignoring Mr. Gladstone’s claims, but,

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR.

477

loyally yielding to pressure, went back to
town and spent a day in endeavour to meet
the Queen’s wishes. The result was to con¬
firm him in his earliest conviction.

Even then Her Majesty, with womanly
persistence, fought against the inevitable.
Lord Granville was sent for, and the com¬
mand to form a Ministry transferred to him.
He, like Lord Hartington, pleading the hope¬
lessness of such endeavour, Mr. Gladstone
was reluctantly summoned, and an interval
that had filled the political world with marvel
and disquiet happily closed.

WH Fourteen years later Her Majesty
Mir H T uuf P was more fortunate in finding her
pefx preference for Lord Rosebery
coincide not only with popular
opinion, but with the personal predilections
of the retiring Minister. A year or two
before he withdrew from the Parliamentary
stage, Mr. Gladstone publicly nominated
Lord Rosebery as his successor. To that
circumstance is attributable the impres¬
sion, which still obtains, that it was Mr.
Gladstone who selected Lord Rosebery.
It was well known in the Cabinet of 1894
that what proved to -be a crown of thorns
was placed on Lord Rosebery’s head by
the Queen’s own hands. Another arrange¬
ment privately talked of at the time, had it
been regarded favourably by Her Majesty,
would have pleasantly varied subsequent
events as regarded from the point of view
of the interests of the Liberal Party. It
proposed Lord Spencer as Premier,

Lord Rosebery as Foreign Secre¬
tary, Sir William Harcourt as Home
Secretary. and Leader of the Com¬
mons. In such case we should
not have had the Death Duties
Budget. But the circumambient
atmosphere in Downing Street would
have been more placid, and the
example of discord in high places
would not have spread through
humbler party tracts.

Talking of the troublous
times between 1892 and
1895, a member who
sat through both Mr.
Gladstone’s and Lord
Rosebery’s Cabinets is of opinion
that two opportunities were lost for
the sorely beset Liberal Govern¬
ment to retrieve its position by a
General Election. Sustained by
the advantage of reviewing the
situation with full knowledge of sub¬
sequent events, this high authority

insists that Mr. Gladstone should have
straightway gone to the country when the
Lords threw out the Home Rule Bill.
For him later to descend to the level
of the Parish Councils Bill was to fritter
away a great opportunity; whilst keeping
members with their nose to the grindstone
up to Christmas Eve, with prospect of
resumption of the sittings in January, was
a waste of priceless energy and endurance
that would have been much better directed
on the field of battle at the polls.

Mr. Gladstone was personally in favour of
•immediate resignation, counting upon the
resentment created in the popular mind by the
action of the Lords. It will be remembered
with what persistence he, in the last speech
delivered in the House of Commons, piled
up the account against the Lords in the long
Session then drawing to its close. He was
out-voted by colleagues in the Cabinet, who
did not think that even the joy of battering
the doors of the House of Lords would
counteract the apathy, verging on distaste,
possessing the mind of the British elector in
view of the Home Rule question.

A light ot ^ er fortunate moment for

th A t resignation that promised to
present itself during Lord Rose¬
bery’s Premiership flashed on
the question of the Indian Cotton Duties.
When Sir Henry James, backed by the
full strength of the Unionist party tempo¬
rarily recruited by some Liberals represent-

MOMENTS

FOR

RESIGNA¬

TION.

478

I HE STRAND MAGAZINE.

ing cotton districts, brought forward his
motion in the interests of British cotton
spinners trading in India, defeat of the
Government seemed inevitable. In Cabinet
Council Lord Rosebery was insistent that,
immediately on the blow falling, Ministers
should resign and an appeal be made to
the country. He was confident that the
answer of the electors to the commercial
heresy of the Opposition would be highly
satisfactory to sound Liberals.

It was Sir Henry Fowler who spoiled this

promising game. He replied to Sir Henry
James in a speech which completely knocked
the bottom out of his case, and turned a
threatened rout into a brilliant victory.
Thus Lord Rosebery’s Government had no
luck. At a particular moment when disaster
in the division lobby might have proved the
herald of permanent access of strength in
the country, they found themselves flushed
with victory. This was the more aggravating
as instances of a set speech in a party
debate influencing votes are exceedingly
rare.

t \dies Mention of the presence of ladies
in the * n H° use of Commons made
house ky ^ le Prussian traveller in Eng¬
land, quoted last month, is the
more remarkable as it is generally understood
that at the date of his visit, 1782, the presence
of ladies was prohibited. Access to the
House was forbidden them under circum¬
stances interesting to consider in connection
with the modern question of women’s rights.

On the 2nd of February, 1778, the House
was densely crowded in anticipation of debate
on the state of the nation. It was to be raised
upon a motion by Mr. Fox declaring that
“ no more of the Old Corps be sent out 01
the kingdom.”

What happened is set forth in the current
issue of the London Chronicle . “ This

day,” it is written, “ a vast multitude
assembled in the lobby and environs of the
House of Commons, but not being able to
gain admission by either entreaty or interest,
they forced their way into
the gallery in spite of the
doorkeepers. The House
considered the intrusion
in a heinous light, and a
motion was directly made
for clearing the gallery.
A partial clearing only
took place ; the gentlemen
were obliged to withdraw ;
the ladies, through com¬
plaisance, were suffered
to remain; but Governor
Johnstone observing that
if the motive for clearing
the House was a supposed
propriety, to keep the state
of the nation concealed
from our enemies, he saw
no reason to indulge the
ladies so far as to make
them acquainted with the
arcana of the State, as he
did not think them more
capable of keeping secrets than the men.
Upon which, they were likewise ordered to
leave the House. The Duchess of Devon¬
shire, Lady Norton, and nearly sixty other
ladies were obliged to obey the man¬
date.”

Referring to Hansard of the date I find
it recorded that, the scene over, Mr.
Fox rose, and after an apology for the

trouble he was about to give the Com¬
mittee, extolled his own personal good
fortune in having his audience reduced,
“ being persuaded he should not have
answered the great expectations which had
brought them there.”

The learned Hatsell thus discourses on
the incident :—

“ When a member in his place

THE LAW . . c T 1 r

takes notice to the Speaker of

ON THE . ... r

matter strangers being in the House

or gallery, it is the Speaker’s
duty immediately to order the Serjeant

to execute the orders of the House, and

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR.

479

to clear the House of all but members,
and this without permitting any debate or
question to be moved upon the execution of
the order. It very seldom happens that this
can be done without a violent struggle from
some quarter of the blouse, that strangers
may remain. Members often move for the
order to be read, endeavour to explain it, and
debate upon it, and the House as often runs
into great heats upon this subject; but in a
short time the confusion subsides, and the
dispute ends by clearing the House, for if
any one member insists upon it, the Speaker
must enforce the order, and the House must
be cleared.”

“The most remarkable instance
terma- of this that has occurred in my
gants. memory,” Hatsell writes, “ was at

a time when the whole gallery
and the seats under the front gallery were
filled with ladies. Captain Johnstone, of
the Navy (commonly called Governor
Johnstone), being angry that the House
was cleared of all the 1 men strangers/
amongst whom were some friends he had
introduced, insisted that
‘ all strangers ’ should with¬
draw. This produced a
violent ferment for a long
time; the ladies showing
great reluctance to comply
with the order of the
House ; so that by their
perseverance business was
interrupted for nearly two
hours. But at length
they were compelled to
submit. Since that time
ladies, many of the highest
rank, have made several
powerful efforts to be
again admitted. But Mr.

Cornwall and Mr. Adding¬
ton have as constantly
declined to permit them
to come in. Indeed, were
this privilege allowed to
any one individual, how¬
ever high her rank, or
respectable her character
and manners, the galleries
must soon be open to all women, who
from curiosity, amusement, or any other
motive, wish to hear the debates. And this
to the exclusion of many young men, and of
merchants and others, whose commercial
interests render their attendance necessary to
them, and of real use and importance to the
public.”

FACETIOUS

SPEAKER.

WIFES

SISTER.

THE DECEASED WIFE’S SISTER.

The earliest reference to the
presence of ladies in the House
of Commons is to be found
Grey’s Debates : “ During a
debate on the ist of June, 1675,” says this
precursor of Hansard, “ some ladies were in
the gallery, peeping over the gentlemen’s
shoulders. The Speaker spying them, called
out, ‘What borough do those ladies serve
for ? ’ to which Mr. William Coventry replied,

‘ They serve for the Speaker’s Chamber! ’
Sir Thomas Littleton said, ‘ The Speaker
might mistake them for gentlemen with fine
sleeves, dressed like ladies.’ Says the
Speaker, ‘ I am sure I saw petticoats.’ ”

THE Sir John Hay, whose handsome
oTrrFAQirr* P resenc e long decorated the
bench behind the Conservative
leaders, used to tell a charming
story about ladies in the House.
Debate coming on on the still perennial
subject of the Deceased Wife’s Sister, Mr.
Henley, thinking the question was not one to
be discussed with fullest freedom in presence
! of ladies, induced the Speaker to order the
Serjeant-at-Arms to have
/ the gallery cleared. This

was done with one excep¬
tion. A strong - minded
female announced her
readiness to sit it out
however disquieting the
ordeal might be.

Mr. Henley, looking up
to see if the Speaker’s
order had been obeyed,
caught a glimpse of an
angular and bonneted
visage peering through
the bars. He called the
Speaker’s attention to the
defiance of his rule, and
a messenger was dis¬
patched with peremptory
repetition of the order.
The lady declined to
move, threatening to
scream if she were
touched. This difficulty
being communicated to
Mr. Denison, then
beckoned Sir John Hay to the

Speaker,

Chair.

“ Tell Henley,” he said, “ I have twice
sent the Serjeant-at-Arms up to clear the
gallery. He reports all gone but one, and
she won’t budge. I believe her to be the
deceased wife’s sister. Better take no notice
and go on with the debate.”

480

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

MR.

CHRISTO
PHER SYKES.

of 1884 Mr.
the House

At the time of his death Mr.
Christopher Sykes was not a
member of the House of Com¬
mons. But he lived there
thrpugh many Sessions, and has left behind
him deathless memories. Few men equally
silent gave the House larger measure of
delight. To behold him was a liberal
education in deportment. Perhaps no one
could be so proper or so wise as he habitually
looked. But it is something for mortals to
have at hand a model, even if it be un-
attainably high.

One night in the Session
Christopher Sykes startled
by bringing in a Bill. If
any member boldly imagin¬
ative had in advance as¬
sociated the Yorkshire mag¬
nate with such an under¬
taking, he would instinctively
have conjured up a question
of enormous gravity—say the
repeal of the Union, or the
re-establishment of the Hep¬
tarchy. When it was dis¬
covered that Mr. Sykes’s bant¬
ling was a Bill to amend the
Fisheries (Oysters, Crabs, and
Lobsters) Act, 1877, the
House shook with Homeric
laughter.

Circumstances
were favourable
to the high
comedy that fol¬
lowed. Ordinary members
bring in Bills in the prosaic
opening hour of a sitting. Mr.

Sykes selected the alternative
opportunity presented at its
close. At that hour the House
is always ready for a lark.

The discovery of Mr. Sykes
standing behind the empty
Front Opposition Bench, grave, white-waist-
coated, wearing in the buttonhole of his
dinner-coat the white flower of a blameless
life, promised sport. He held a paper in his
hand, but said never a word, staring blankly
at the Speaker, who was also on his legs,
running through the Orders of the Day.
For a member to remain on his feet whilst
the Speaker is upstanding is a breach of
order of which Mr. Sykes was riotously
reminded. For all answer, he looked around
with the air of a stolid man surveying, with¬
out understanding, the capering of a cage of
monkeys.

Christo¬
pher’s

MANOEUVRES.

“the air of a stolid man

SURVEYING THE CAPERING OF
A CAGE OF MONKEYS.”

The Speaker, charitably concluding that the
hon. member was moving for leave to bring
in the Bill, put the question. Sir Wilfrid
Lawson observed that the Bill was evidently
one of great importance. It was usual in
such circumstances for the member in charge
to explain its scope. Would Mr. Sykes
favour the House with a few observations ?

Mr. Sykes took no notice of this appeal or
of the uproarious applause with which it was
sustained. Leave being given to bring in
the. Bill, Christopher, who had evidently
carefully rehearsed the procedure, rose and
with long stride made his way to the Bar.
Members in charge of Bills, having obtained
leave to introduce them, stand
at the Bar till, the list com¬
pleted, the Speaker calls upon
them by name to bring up
their Bill, which they hand to
the Clerk at the table. To the
consternation of the Speaker
and the uncontrollable amuse¬
ment of the House, Mr. Sykes,
having reached the Bar,
straightway turned about,
walked up the floor, Bill in
hand, and stood at the table
solemnly gazing on the
Speaker. As nothing seemed
to come of this, he, after a
while, retired a few paces,
bowed to the Mace, again
advanced, halted at the foot
of the table, and again stared
at the Speaker. The Solicitor-
General and another Minister
who happened to be on the
Treasury Bench took him by
each arm, gently but firmly
leading him back to the Bar,
standing sentry beside him in
preparation for any further
unauthorized movement.

Other business disposed of,
the Speaker called him by name. Mr. Sykes,
whose unruffled visage and attitude of funereal
gravity were in striking contrast with the
uproarious merriment that prevailed on both
sides, again advanced, handed the Bill to the
waiting Clerk, and forthwith departed. This
was a fresh and final breach of Parliamentary
rules. It is ordered that a member, having
brought in a Bill, shall stand at the table
whilst the Clerk reads out its title. In reply to
a question from the Speaker he names a day
for the second reading. Swift messengers
caught Mr. Sykes as he was crossing the Bar
and haled him back to the table, where at

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR.

481

last, preserving amid shouts of laughter his im¬
pregnable air of gravity, he completed his work.

But he never brought in another Bill,
and, though he did not immediately retire
from Parliamentary life, he withdrew more

MR. JOHNSTON IN PRISON.

closely in his shell, even as the perturbed
periwinkle or the alarmed cockle shrink from
the rude advance of man.

In some particulars the member
of BALI y- forSouth Belfast fails to realize

KIII’FG P°P U ^ ar ^ ea an

member. He is certainly not bois¬
terous in his humour, and never emulates Sir
Boyle Roche. Yet humour he has, rather
of dour, Covenanting style, highly success¬
ful in tickling the
fancy of the House.

The highest tribute
to his excellent
qualities of heart and
mind is found in the
fact that though a
typical Orangeman,
on whom glimpse of
the flutter of the
skirt of the Scarlet
I^ady has the same
effect as the waving
of a red rag on an
infuriate bull, he is
on friendliest terms with his
Catholic compatriots. To
the delight of the House,
they fence with each other
at question-time, Ballykilbeg

Vol. xvii.—61.

by no means always coming off worst in the
encounter of wit.

There is one important particular in which
— Mr. Johnston can claim common ground with
Irish members in the opposite camp. He has
been in prison. The event happened long
ago, and Mr. Johnston being then of only local
fame did not loom large in the newspapers.
Consequently it passed from recollection, the
House being startled when, one night last
Session, in Committee on the Irish Local
Government Bill, Mr. Dillon, whose memory
for such matters is fresher, made passing
allusion to it.

It was one of the incidents consequent on
the glorious celebration in the year 1867 of
the Twelfth of July in County Down. There
was at that time in existence a statute known
as the Party Processions Act, which prohibited
street demonstrations in Ireland. Mr. Johnston
thought he observed that whilst the Act was
negligently administered when there was ques¬
tion of Catholic or Nationalist street pro¬
cessions, no two or three Orangemen wearing
harmless ribbons, beating the peaceful drum,

and roaring “ To-with the Pope ! ” might

parade the streets of Belfast without straight¬
way being haled to prison. He resolved to
offer himself as a martyr to the cause of
truth. Accordingly, on this 12th of July,
now more than twenty-one years past, he
arrayed himself in full fig, and placed him¬
self at the head of an Orange procession.
He was arrested, and committed for trial.
Brought before the genial judge now (through
the London season) an exile from his country
under the style of Lord Morris, he was
sentenced to two months’ imprisonment.

It was intimated to him that, if he pleased,
he might go forth
from prison on
his own recogni¬
sances. As that in¬
volved a pledge not
to do it any more,
he stoutly declined.
He served his two
months, and found
in the discipline the
making of his politi¬
cal fortunes. In 1868
came the General Election,
pregnant with Mr. Glad¬
stone’s great boons for
Ireland. The men of Bel¬
fast returned Mr. Johnston
of Ballykilbeg at the head
of the poll, and have since
remained faithful to him.

BEATING THE ORANGE DRUM.

By E. Nesbit.

HE Princess and the gardener’s
boy were playing in the back
yard.

“ What will you do when
you grow up, Princess ? ” asked
the gardener’s boy.

“ I should like to marry you, Tom,” said
the Princess. “ Would you mind ?”

“ No,” said the gardener’s boy. “ I
shouldn’t mind much. I’ll marry you if you
like—if I have time.”

For the gardener’s boy meant, as soon as
he was grown-up, to be a general and a poet
and a Prime Minister and an admiral and a
civil engineer. Meanwhile he was top of
all his classes at school, and tip-top of the
geography class.

As for the Princess Mary Ann, she was a
very good little girl, and everyone loved her.
She was always kind and polite, even to her
Uncle James and to other people whom she
did not like very much ; and though she
was not very clever, for a Princess, she
always tried to do her lessons. Even if
you know perfectly well that you can’t do
your lessons, you may as well try, and
sometimes you find that by some fortunate

accident they really are done. Then the
Princess had a truly good heart: she was
always kind to her pets. She never slapped
her hippopotamus when it broke her dolls in
its playful gambols, and she never forgot to
feed her rhinoceroses in their little hutch in
the back yard. Her elephant was devoted
to her, and sometimes Mary Ann made her
nurse quite cross by smuggling the dear little
thing up to bed with her and letting it go to
sleep with its long trunk laid lovingly across
her throat, and its pretty head cuddled under
the Royal right ear.

When the Princess had been good all
through the week—for, like all real, live,
nice children, she was sometimes naughty,
but never bad—nurse would allow her to
ask her little friends to come on Wednesday
morning early and spend the day, because
Wednesday is the end of the week in that
country. Then, in the afternoon, when all
the little dukes and duchesses and marquises
and countesses had finished their rice¬
pudding, and had had their hands and faces
washed after it, nurse would say :—

“ Now, my dears, what would you like to
do this afternoon?” just as if she didn’t

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

know ! And the answer would be always the
same :—

“ Oh, do let’s go to the Zoological Gardens
and ride on the big guinea-pig and feed the
rabbits and hear the dormouse asleep.”

So their pinafores were taken off and they
all went to the Zoological Gardens—where
twenty of them could ride at a time on the
guinea-pig, and where even the little ones
could feed the great
rabbits if some grown¬
up person were kind
enough to lift them up
for the purpose. And

483

went spinning away by itself across the water
which was just beginning to try to get spread
out smooth into. a real sea. And as the
great round piece of earth flew away, going
round and round as hard as it could, it met
a long piece of hard rock that had got loose
from another part of the puddingy mixture,
and the rock was so hard, and was going so
fast, that it ran its point through the island
and stuck out on
the other side of it,
so that the two to¬
gether were like a
very-very-much-too-
big teetotum.

I am afraid all
this is very dull,
but you know geo¬
graphy is never
quite lively, and
after all I must
give you a little

' Jh *- T

there always was some such
person, because in Rotundia
everybody was kind—ex¬
cept one.

Now that you have read as far as this you
know, of course, that the Kingdom of
Rotundia was a very remarkable place; and
if you are a thoughtful child—as of course
you are—you will not need me to tell you
what was the most remarkable thing about it.
But in case you are not a thoughtful child—
and it is just possible of course that you are
not —I will tell you at once what that most
remarkable thing was. All the animals ivere
the wrong sizes! And this was how it
happened.

In old, old, olden times, when all our
world was just loose earth and air and fire
and water mixed up anyhow like a pudding,
and spinning round like mad trying to get
the different things to settle into their proper
places, a round piece of earth got loose and

THEY ALL WENT TO THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.”

information even in a fairy tale—like the
powder in jam.

Well, when the pointed rock smashed into
the round bit of earth the shock was so great
that it set them spinning together through
the air — which was just getting into its
proper place, like all the rest of the things—
only, as luck would have it, they forgot which
way round they had been going, and began
to spin round the wrong' way. Presently
Centre of Gravity — a great giant who was
managing the whole business—woke up in
the middle of the earth and began to
grumble.

484

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ Hurry up,” he said ; “ come down and
lie still, can’t you ? ”

So the rock with the round piece of
earth fell into the sea, and the point
of the rock went into a hole that just fitted
it in the stony sea-bottom, and there it spun
round the wrong way seven times and then
lay still. And that round piece # of land
became, after millions of years, the Kingdom
of Rotundia.

This is the end of the geography lesson.
And now for just a little natural history, so
that we may not feel that we are quite
wasting our time. Of course, the consequence
of the island having spun round the wrong
way was that when the animals began to grow
on the island they all grew the wrong sizes.
The guinea-pig, as you know, was as big as
our elephants, and the elephant—dear little
pet—was the size of the silly, tiny, black-and-
tan dogs that ladies carry sometimes in their
muffs. The rabbits were about the size
of our rhinoceroses, and all about the wild
parts of the island they had made their
burrows as big as railway tunnels. The
dormouse, of course, was the biggest of all
the creatures. I can’t tell you how big
he was. Even if you think of elephants
it will not help you at all. Luckily there
was only one of him, and he was always
asleep. Otherwise I don’t ^hink the Rotun-
dians could have borne with him. As it
was, they made him a house, and it saved
the expense of a brass band, because no
band could possibly have been heard when
the dormouse was talking in his sleep.

The men and women and children in this
wonderful island were quite the right size,
because their ancestors had come over with
the Conqueror long after the island had
settled down and the animals grown on it.

Now the natural history lesson is over, and
if you have been attending, you know more
about Rotundia than anyone there did,
except three people : the Lord Chief School¬
master, and the Princess’s uncle—who was
a magician, and knew everything without
learning it—and Tom, the gardener’s son.

Tom had learned more at school than
anyone else, because he wished to take a
prize. The prize offered by the Lord Chief
Schoolmaster was a “ History of Rotundia ”—
beautifully bound, with the Royal arms on
the back. But after that day when the
Princess said she meant to marry Tom, the
gardener’s boy thought it over, and he
decided that the best prize in the world
would be the Princess, and this was the
prize Tom meant to take ; and when you are

a gardener’s son, and have decided to marry
a Princess, you will find that the more you
learn at school the better.

The Princess always played with Tom on
the days when the little dukes and marquises
did not come to tea—and when he told her
he was almost sure of the first prize, she
clapped her hands and said :—

“ Dear Tom, dear good, clever Tom, you
deserve all the prizes. And I will give you
my pet elephant—and you can keep him till
we’re married.”

The pet elephant was called Fido, and the
gardener’s son took him away in his coat-
pocket. He was the dearest little elephant you
ever saw—about six inches long. But he was
very, very wise—he could not have been wiser
if he had been a mile high. He lay
down comfortably in Tom’s pocket,
and when Tom put in his hand, Fido
curled his little trunk round Tom’s
fingers with an affectionate confidence
that made the boy’s heart warm to his new
little pet. What with the elephant, and the
Princess’s affection, and the knowledge that
the very next day he would receive the
“ History of Rotundia,” beautifully bound,
with the Royal arms on the cover, Tom
could hardly sleep a wink. And, besides,
the dog did bark so terribly. There was
only one dog in Rotundia—the kingdom
could not afford to keep more than one : he
was a Mexican lap-dog of the kind
that in most parts of the world only
measures seven inches from the end of his
dear nose to the tip of his darling tail—but
in Rotundia he was bigger than I can pos¬
sibly expect you to believe. And when he
barked, his bark was so large that it filled up
all the night and left no room for sleep or
dreams or polite conversation, or anything
else at all. He never barked at things that
went on in the island—he was too large-
minded for that ; but when ships went
blundering by in the dark, tumbling over
the rocks at the end of the island, he
would bark once or twice, just to let the
ships know that they couldn’t come playing
about there just as they liked.

But on this particular night he barked, and
barked, and barked—and the Princess said,
“ Oh dear, oh dear, I wish he wouldn’t, I am
so sleepy.” And Tom said to himself: “ I
wonder whatever is the matter. As soon as
it’s light I’ll go and see.”

So when it began to be pretty pink-and-
yellow daylight, Tom got up and went out.
And all the time the Mexican lap-dog barked
so that the houses shook, and the tiles on

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

the roof of the palace rattled like milk-cans
in a cart whose horse is frisky.

“ I’ll go to the pillar,” thought Tom, as he
went through the town. The pillar, of
course, was the top of the piece of rock that
had stuck itself through Rotundia millions
of years before, and made it spin round the
wrong way. It was quite in the middle of
the island, and stuck up ever so far, and
when you were at the top you could see a
great deal farther than when you were not.

As Tom went out from the town, and across
the downs, he thought what a pretty sight
it was to see the rabbits in the bright, dewy
morning, frisking with their young ones
by the mouths of their burrows. He
did not go very near the rabbits, of
course, because when a rabbit of that
size is at play it does not always look
where it is going, and it
might easily have crushed
Tom with its foot, and then

485

bells tinkled, and the chimney of the apple
factory rocked again.

But when Tom got to the pillar, he saw
that he would not need to climb to the top
to find out what the dog was barking at.

it would have been very
sorry afterwards. And Tom
was a kind boy, and would
not have liked to make
even a rabbit unhappy. Ear¬
wigs in our country often
get out of the way when
they think you are going to
walk on them. They too
have kind hearts, and they
would not like you to be sorry afterwards.

So Tom went on, looking at the rabbits
and watching the morning grow more and
more red and golden. And the Mexican
lap-dog barked all the time, till the church

BY THE PILLAR LAY A VERY LARGE
PURPLE DRAGON.”

For there,
by the pillar,
lay a very large
purple dragon.
His wings were
like old purple
umbrellas that have been very much
rained on, and his head was large and
bald, like the top of a purple toad-stool,
and his tail, which was purple too,
was very, very, very long, and thin, and
tight like the lash of a carriage whip.

It was licking one of its purple umbrella-y
wings,, and every now and then it moaned
and leaned its head back against the rocky
pillar as though it felt faint. Tom saw at
once what had happened. A flight of purple
dragons must have crossed the island in the
night, and this poor one must have knocked
its wing and broken it against the pillar.

4 86

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Everyone is kind to everyone in Rotundia,
and Tom was not afraid of the dragon,
although he had never spoken to one before.
He had often watched them flying across the
sea, but he had never expected to get to
know one personally.

So now he said :—

“ I am afraid you don’t feel quite well.”

The dragon shook his large purple head.
He could not speak, but like all other
animals, he could understand well enough
when he liked.

“Can I get you anything?” asked Tom,
politely.

The dragon opened his purple eyes with
an inquiring smile.

“A bun or two, now,” said Tom,
coaxingly; “ there’s a beautiful bun-tree quite
close.”

The dragon opened a great purple
mouth and licked his purple lips, so Tom
ran and shook the bun-tree, and soon
came back with an armful of fresh
currant buns, and as he came he picked a
few of the Bath kind which grow on the low
bushes near the pillar.

Because, of course, another consequence of
the island’s having spun the wrong way is
that all the things we have to make—buns
and cakes and shortbread—grow on trees
and bushes, but in Rotundia they have to
make their cauliflowers and cabbages and
carrots and apples and onions, just as our
cooks make puddings and turn¬
overs.

Tom gave all the buns to the
dragon, saying:—

“ Here, try to eat a little.

You’ll soon feel better then.”

The dragon ate up the buns,
nodded rather ungraciously, and
began to lick his wing again.

So Tom left him, and went
back to the town with the news,
and everyone was so excited at
a real live dragon’s being on
the island—a thing which had
never happened before — that
they all went out to look at it,
instead of going to the prize¬
giving, and the Lord Chief
Schoolmaster went with the rest.

Now, he had Tom’s prize, the
“ History of Rotundia,” in his
pocket—the one bound in calf,
with the Royal arms on the
cover—and it happened to drop
out, and the dragon ate it, so
Tom never got the prize after

all. But the dragon, when he had got it,
did not like it.

“ Perhaps it’s all for the best,” said Tom.
“ I might not have liked that prize either, if
I had got it.”

It happened to be a Wednesday, so when
the Princess’s friends were asked what they
would like to do, all the little dukes and
marquises and earls said, “ Let’s go and see
the dragon.” But the little duchesses and
marchionesses and countesses said they were
afraid.

Then Princess Mary Ann spoke up royally,
and said, “ Don’t be silly, because it’s only
in fairy stories and histories of England, and
things like that, that people are unkind and
want to hurt each other. In Rotundia every¬
one is kind, and no one has anything to be
afraid of, unless they’re naughty ; and then
we know it’s for our own good. Let’s all go
and see the dragon. We might take him
some acid-drops.”

So they went. And all the titled children
took it in turns to feed the dragon with acid-
drops, and he seemed pleased and flattered,

THE TITLED CHILDREN loON IT IN TURNS TO FEED THE DRAGON.

THE SEVEN BEACONS.

487

and wagged as much of his purple tail as he
could get at conveniently ; for it was a very,
very long tail indeed. But when it came to
the Princess’s turn to give an acid-drop
to the dragon, he smiled a very wide smile,
and wagged his tail to the very last long
inch of it, as much as to say, “ Oh,
you nice, kind, pretty little Princess.”
But deep down in his wicked purple
heart he was saying, “ Oh, you nice, fat,
pretty little Princess, I should like to eat
you instead of these silly acid-drops.” But,
of course, nobody heard him except the
Princess’s uncle, and. he was a magician, and
accustomed to listening at doors. It was
part of his trade.

Now, you will remember that I told you
there was one wicked person in Rotundia,
and I cannot conceal
from you any longer
that this Complete
Bad was the Princess’s
Uncle James. Now,
magicians are always
bad, as you know
from your fairy books,
and some uncles are
bad, as you see by
the “ Babes in the
Wood,” or the “ Nor¬
folk Tragedy,” and
one James at least was
bad, as you have
learned from your
English history. And
when anyone is a
magician, and is also
an uncle, and is
named James as well,
you need not expect
anything nice from
him. He is a Three
Fold Complete Bad—
and he will come to.no good.

Uncle James had long
wanted to get rid of the
Princess, and have the king¬
dom to himself. He did
not like many things—a nice
kingdom was almost the only
thing he cared for—but he
had never seen his way quite
clearly, because everyone is
so kind in Rotundia that wicked spells
will not work there, but run off those
blameless islanders like water off a duck’s
back. Now, however, Uncle James thought
there might be a chance for him—-because
he knew that now there were two wicked

people on the island who could stand by
each other—himself and the dragon. But
he said nothing, only he exchanged a
meaning glance with the dragon, and every¬
one went home to tea. And no one had
seen the meaning glance, except Tom. And
he went home, and told his elephant all
about it. The intelligent little creature
listened carefully, and then climbed from
Tom’s knee to the table, on which stood an
ornamental calendar which the Princess had
given Tom for a Christmas present. With
its tiny trunk the elephant pointed out a
date—the 15th of August—the Princess’s
birthday, and looked anxiously at its master.

“ What is it, Fido—good little elephant—
then?” said Tom, and the sagacious animal
repeated its former gesture. Then Tom
understood.

“ Oh, something is
to happen on her
birthday ? All right.

I’ll be on the look¬
out,” and he was.

At first the people
of Rotundia were
quite pleased with the
dragon—who lived by
the pillar and fed him¬
self from the bun-trees,
but by - and - by he
began to wander. He
would creep into the burrows made by the great
rabbits ; and excursionists, sporting on the
downs, would see his long, tight, whip-like tail
wriggling down a burrow and out of sight,
and before they had time to say, “ There
he goes,” his ugly purple head would

BY-AND-BY HE BEGAN TO WANDEK."

4 8 S

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE .

come poking out from another rabbit-hole—
perhaps just behind them—or laugh softly to
itself just in their ears. And the dragon’s
laugh was not a merry one. This, sort of
hide-and-seek amused people at first, but
by-and-by it began to get on their nerves :
and if you don’t know what that means, ask
mother to tell you next time you are playing
hide-and-seek when she has a headache.
Then the dragon got into the habit of crack¬
ing his tail, as people crack whips, and
this also got on people’s nerves. Then, too,
little things began to be missed. And you
know how unpleasant that is, even in a private
school, and in a public kingdom it is, of
course, much worse. The things that were
missed were nothing much at first—a few
little elephants, a hippopotamus or two, and
some giraffes, and things like that. It was
nothing much, as I say—but it made people
feel uncomfortable. Then one day a
favourite rabbit of the Princess’s called
Frederick mysteriously disappeared, and
then came a terrible morning when the
Mexican lap-dog was missing. He had
barked ever since the dragon came to the
island, and people had grown quite used to
the noise. So when his barking suddenly
ceased it woke everybody up—and they all
went out to see what was the matter. And
the lap-dog was gone !

A boy was sent to wake the army, so that
it might look for him. But the army was
gone too ' And now the people began to be
frightened. Then Uncle James came out on
to the terrace of the palace, and he made the
people a speech. He said :—

“ Friends—fellow-citizens — I cannot dis¬
guise from myself or from you that this
purple dragon is a poor penniless exile—
a helpless alien in our midst, and, besides,
he is a—is no end of a dragon.”

7 "he people thought of the dragon’s tail
and said, “ Hear, hear.”

Uncle James went on : “Something has
happened to a gentle and defenceless mem¬
ber of our community. We don’t know
what has happened.”

Everyone thought of the rabbit named
Frederick and groaned.

“ The defences of our country have been
swallowed up,” said Uncle James.

Everyone thought of the poor army.

“ There is only one thing to be done.”
Uncle James was warming to his subject.
“ Could we ever forgive ourselves if by
neglecting a simple precaution we lost more
rabbits — or even, perhaps, our navy, our
police, and our fire brigade ? For I warn

you that the purple dragon will respect
nothing, however sacred.”

Everyone thought of themselves — and
they said, “ What is the simple precaution ? ”

Then Uncle James said :—

“ To-morrow is the dragon’s birthday.
He is accustomed to have a present on his
birthday. If he gets a nice present he will
be in a hurry to take it away and show it to
his friends, and he will fly off and never
come back.”

The crowd cheered wildly — and the
Princess from her balcony clapped her
hands.

“The present the dragon expects,” said
Uncle James, cheerfully, “is rather an
expensive one. But, when we give, it should
not be in a grudging spirit, especially to
visitors. What the dragon wants is a Prin¬
cess. We have only one Princess, it is true;
but far be it from us to display a miserly
temper at such a moment. And the gift is
worthless that costs the giver nothing. Your
readiness to give up your Princess will only
show how generous you are.”

The crowd began to cry, for they loved
their Princess, though they quite saw that
their first duty was to be generous and give
the poor dragon what it wanted.

The Princess began to cry, for she did not
want to be anybody’s birthday present —
especially a purple dragon’s. And Tom
began to cry because he was so angry.

He went straight home and told his little
elephant—and the elephant cheered him up
so much that presently the two grew quite
absorbed in a tee-to-tum which the elephant
was spinning with his little trunk.

Early in the morning Tom went to the
palace. He looked out across the downs—
there were hardly any rabbits playing there
now—and then he gathered white roses and
threw them at the Princess’s window till she
woke up and looked out.

“ Come up and kiss me,” she said.

So Tom climbed up the white rose bush and
kissed the Princess through the window, and
said

“ Many happy returns of the day.”

Then Mary Ann began to cry, and said :—

“Oh, Ton—how can you? When you
know quite well-”

“ Oh, don’t,” said Tom. “ Why, Mary
Ann, my precious, my Princess—what do
you think I should be doing while the
dragon was getting his birthday present ?
Don’t cry, my own little Mary Ann 1 Fido
and I have arranged everything. You’ve
only got to do as you are told.”

THE SEVEN DRAGONS

489

“ Is that all ? ” said the Princess. “ Oh—
that’s easy-—I’ve often done that!”

Then Tom told her what she was to do.
And she kissed him again and again. “Oh,
you dear, good, clever Tom,” she said ; “ how
glad I am that I gave you Fido. You two
have saved me. You dears !”

The next morning Uncle James put on his
best coat and hat and the waistcoat with the
gold snakes on it—he was a magician, and
he had a bright taste
in waistcoats—and he
called with a cab to
take the Princess out.

“Come, little birth¬
day present,” he said,
tenderly, “ the dragon
will be so pleased.

And I’m glad to see
you’re not crying. You
know, my child, we
cannot begin too
young to learn to
think of the happi¬
ness of others
rather than our
own. I should not
like my dear little
niece to be selfish,
or to wish to deny
a trivial pleasure
to a poor, sick
dragon, far from
his home and
friends.”

And the Prin¬
cess said she would
try not to be selfish.

So presently the
cab drew up near
the pillar-—and
there was the
dragon, his ugly
purple head shin¬
ing in the sun,
and his ugly
purple mouth half
open.

Then Uncle James said, “ Good morning,
sir. We have brought you a small present for
your birthday. We do not like to let such an
anniversary go by without some suitable testi¬
monial, especially to one who is a stranger
in our midst. Our means are small, but
our hearts are large. We have but one
Princess, but we give her freely—do we not,
my child?”

The Princess said she supposed so, and
the dragon came a little nearer,

Yol, xvii.—62

Suddenly a voice cried : “ Run ! ” and
there was Tom, and he had brought the
Zoological guinea-pig and a pair of Belgian
hares with him.'

“ Just to see fair,” said Tom.

Uncle James was furious. “ What do you
mean, sir,” he cried, “ by intruding on a
State function with your common rabbits and
things ? Go away, naughty little boy, and
play with them somewhere else.”

But while he was speaking the
rabbits had come up one on each side
of him, their great sides towering ever
so high, and now they pressed him
between them so
that he was buried
in their thick fur
and almost choked.
The Princess,
meantime, had run
to the other side
of the pillar and
was peeping round
it to see what was
going on. A crowd
had followed the
cab out of the
town; now they
reached the scene
of the “ State
Function ” — and
they all cried
out:—

“ Fair play —
play fair. We can’t
go back on our
word like this. Give a
thing and take a thing?
Why, it’s ?iever done. Let
the poor exiled stranger
dragon have his birthday
present.” And they tried
to get at Tom—but the
guinea-pig stood in the
way.

“Yes,” Tom cried.
“ Fair play is a jewel.
And your helpless exile
shall have the Princess : if he can catch her.
Now then, Mary Ann.”

Mary Ann looked round the big pillar
and called to the dragon : “ Bo ! you

can’t catch me,” and began to run as fast
as ever she could, and the dragon after
her. When the Princess had run half a
mile she stopped, dodged round a tree, and
ran back to the pillar and round it, and
the dragon after her. You see, he was so
long he could not turn as quickly as she

THE DRAGON AFTER HER.”

490

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

could. Round and round the pillar ran the
Princess. The first time she ran round a
long way from the pillar, and then nearer
and nearer—with the dragon after her
all the time ; and he was so busy
trying to catch her that he never noticed
that Tom had tied the very end of his
long, tight, whip-cordy tail to the rock, so
that the more the dragon ran round, the
more times he twisted his tail round the
pillar. It was exactly like winding a top-
only the peg was the pillar, and the dragon’s
tail was the string. And the magician was
safe between the Belgian hares, and couldn’t
see anything but darkness or do anything
but choke.

When the dragon was wound on to the
pillar, as much as he could possibly be,
and as tight—like cotton on a reel - the
Princess stopped running, and though she
had very little breath left, she managed to
say, “ Yah—who’s won now ? ”

This annoyed the dragon so much that he
put out all his strength—spread his great
purple wings, and tried to fly at her. Of
course this pulled his tail, and pulled it very
hard, so hard that as he pulled the tail had
to come, and the pillar had to come round
with the tail, and the island had to come
round with the pillar, and in another minute
the tail was loose, and the island was
spinning round exactly like a tee-to-tum.
It spun so fast that everyone fell flat
on their faces and held on tight to them¬
selves, because they felt something was
going to happen. All but the magician,
who was choking between the Belgian hares,
and felt nothing but fur and fury.

And something did happen. The dragon
had sent the kingdom of Rotundia spinning
the way it ought to have gone at the
beginning of the world, and as it spun round
all the animals began to change sizes. The
guinea-pigs got small and the elephants got
big, and the men and women and children
would have changed sizes, too, if they had
not had the sense to hold on to themselves,
very tight indeed, with both hands ; which, of
course, the animals could not be expected
to know how to do. And the best of it was
that when the small beasts got big and the
big beasts got small the dragon got small
too, and fell at the Princess’s feet—a little,
crawling, purple newt with wings.

“Funny little thing,” said the Princess,

when she saw it. “I will take it for a birth¬
day present.”

But while all the people were still on their
faces, holding on tight to themselves, Uncle
James, the magician, never thought of holding
tight—he only thought of how to punish
Belgian hares and the sons of gardeners;
so when the big beasts grew small, he grew
small with the other beasts, and the little
purple dragon, when he fell at the Princess’s
feet, saw there a very small magician named
Uncle James. And the dragon took him
because it wanted a birthday present.

So now all the animals were new sizes—
and at first it seemed very strange to every¬
one to have great lumbering elephants and a
tiny little dormouse, but they have got used
to it now, and think no more of it than we do.

All this happened several years ago, and
the other day I saw in the Rotundia Tunes
an account of the wedding of the Princess
with Lord Thomas Gardener, K.C.D., and I
knew she could not have married anyone but
Tom, so I suppose they made him a Lord
on purpose for the wedding—and K.C.D., of
course, means Clever Conqueror of the
Dragon. If you think that is wrong it is
only because you don’t know how they spell
in Rotundia. The paper said that among
the beautiful presents of the bridegroom to
the bride was an enormous elephant, on
which the bridal pair made their wedding
tour. This must have been Fido. You
remember Pom promised to give him back
to the Princess when they were married.
The Rotundia Times called the married
couple “the happy pair.” It was clever of
the paper to think of calling them that—it is
such a pretty and novel expression—and 1
think it is truer than many of the things you
see in papers.

Because, you see, the Princess and the
gardener’s son were so fond of each other
they could not help being happy — and
besides, they had an elephant of their very
own to ride on. If that is not enough to
make people happy, I should like to know
what is. Though, of course, I know there
are some people who could not be happy
unless they had a whale to sail on, and
perhaps not even then. But they are greedy,
grasping people, the kind who would take
four helps of pudding, as likely as not, which
neither Tom nor Mary Ann ever did.

Curiosities*

[ We shall be glad to receive Contributions to th is section , and to pay for such as are accepted .]

start from, by touch. (Keep the left hand on
the paper firmly.) Begin with the ears of the
pig, then the head, legs, tail—and you can
then feel the pen travelling along the back
till it comes over the little finger again. Then
you have the eye a little lower. Don’t give
this away till you have your piggery full.
Wishing you every success. — Believe me,
yours sincerely, Marry Furniss.”

GEORGE WASHINGTON ANDREW JACKSON
IN PRISON.

George Washington Andrew Jackson, a
celebrated but noisy juvenile of Darktown,
has been taken in hand by the authorities,
and is now doing penance for his misdeeds.
“Stone walls do not. a prison make, nor
iron bars a cage,” but the wooden rungs of
an old-fashioned chair seem to be even more
effective than iron bars. There is a laugh
in such a photograph as this, and it would
please us to receive any similar photographs
showing the humorous side of child life,
whether black or white.

MR. HARRY FURNISS ON “ BLINDFOLD PIGS.”

At the end of an article last month on pigs drawn
blindfold by various celebrated people, we promised
to give in this issue the very interesting letter and
sketches by which Mr. Harry Furniss exemplified
his method of drawing such pigs with almost as
much accuracy as when the eyes are open. Mr.
Furniss’s letter runs as follows: “With pleasure,
I inclose my first attempt for you, but it is
by no means my best blind pig. I have a trick in
drawing with my eyes shut. It is not a difficult one
—perhaps you would like to try it. Simply use your
left hand as a guide. In drawing a pig with your
eyes shut, use the little finger of the left hand to

49 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

THE CAPACIOUS ARMY MULE.

This funny photograph, showing
an old army mule in North-Western
United States with a brigade of
“army kids” on his long-suffering
back, is another of the sort which we
should like. The number of “ kids ”
that will take passage on one of these
uncertain animals depends entirely
on the length of the said animal.
Here we have young America as he
really is, snap-shotted at the very
moment when all the fun and mis¬
chief in his buoyant nature come out.
In order that they may be specially
considered, all such photographs
may be addressed to Department A,
Strand Magazine, 7—12, South¬
ampton Street, Strand, W.C.,
London.

WAIN WRIGHT’S FOLLY.

Such is the name locally given to
the desolate looking tower depicted
below, the sender of which is Mr.
Fred. Sergeant, 6, Eldon Place, Hop-

wood Lane, Halifax, Yorks. It is situated on Shirlcoat
Green, Halifax, and was originally intended for a
chimney in order that the owner of some dyeworks
near by might have an increased draught for his fires.
But some disagreement arose between the dyer and
the landowner whose estate adjoined the grounds in
which the tower now stands, and instead of complet¬
ing the structure as originally designed, he peremptorily
suspended the old building operations and placed a
decorative pediment upon the summit, his object
being, it is said, to annoy his neighbour by overlook¬
ing his estate. The tower is 240ft. in height, and
was built in 1870 at a cost of ^2,000. The original
top piece was blown off some years ago, but it was
replaced by a smaller one.

A TRAIN IN PERSPECTIVE.

This is a pocket kodak snap-shot taken by Mr. J.
Hamilton, of Quetta, India, from the window of a
train proceeding up the Bolan Pass, India. The
fore-shortening of the train is extremely curious, and
stands out in a telling black against the dry sandy waste
of those desolate regions.

IN THE GRIP OF AN OYSTER.

Rats have more than their natural foe, man, to fear
in a fishmonger’s establishment. Here we have a
photograph of a rodent whose death was primarily
caused by the oyster that is to be seen fastened on to
its tail. The sender of the photograph, Mr. Guy C.
Morris, of Dunedin, New Zealand, states that the
oyster and its victim were found one morning by a fish¬
monger in his shop. The rat had sought the protection
of its hole in a dark corner of the premises, but was
unable to drag the oyster in after it. In its exaspera¬
tion it beat both itself and the oyster wildly against
the wainscoting, and for some time the fishmonger
was much puzzled to account for the strange noises.

CURIOSITIES.

493

A WRECKED POTATO-SQUEEZER.

Here we have the fragments of a
potato-squeezer that exploded. Mr. A.
Bentley, of Eshwood Park Villa, Dur¬
ham, the sender of the photograph, says
that after washing the squeezer his wife
had it placed in the oven to dry. It
was however, forgotten, and the next
morning, when the oven was heated
for cooking purposes, there was a tremen¬
dous explosion, and the squeezer was
found in the condition shown in the
photograph. “The only reason I can
give for the occurrence,” adds Mr.
Bentley, “is that the part of the
implement that does the squeezing was
hollow and air-tight, and the heat expand¬
ing the air in the chamber caused the
thing to burst.”

the Loenvaad, Norway, on a wire rope. Mr. S.
Capel Peck, 25, Fitzwilliam Street, Cambridge, who
forwarded the photograph, writes : “ The Norwegians,
who live for weeks and months in the summer on the
great heights on either side of their beautiful valleys,
send down milk, cheeses, hay, etc., to the farms below
by suspending them on inclined wires fastened at one
end firmly to the ground and at the other to some
point on the rocks above. The snap-shot shows a
bundle ofhay on its way from a great height on one
side of the lake to the farm on the other side. It
sped along, the friction causing it to shed sparks
in all directions, and was. timed to take forty-four
seconds.” The negative is not perhaps quite so clear
as it might have been, but this is accounted for by
its being taken just as it was stopping raining. If
the bundle be closely examined the constriction caused
by the cord holding it together is distinctly visible.

A MIRACULOUS SPRING.

This is not an optical delusion, but a fresh¬
water spring in the trunk of a healthy oak
tree situated in Ouchy, Switzerland. It is
more than a passing mystery how it has
succeeded in making this outlet for itself,
and it is hardly to be wondered at that the
villagers regard it as supernatural and having
some miraculous powers, especially in cases
of courtship. The water was found so pure
that a pipe was introduced to assist its flow,
and a tank made to receive the sparkling
liquid. The spring is the trysting spot of
the adjacent villages.

A NOVEL MODE OF TRANSPORT.

The particular point of interest about
this photograph is the little black spot to
be seen apparently in the clouds just above
the side of the mountain. This is a bundle
of hay which is being transported across

494

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

From a Photo, by Aug. Striepling. Hameln.

SEVEN AT A BIRTH.

In the old town of Hameln, on the Weser,
Germany, so famed on account of its associa¬
tion with the legendary
Pied Piper, is a house
in the Emmern Strasse,

No. 3, on the outside wall
of which is to be seen the
tablet reproduced in the
above photograph. The
inscription, which explains
itself, translated reads as
follows : “ Here resided a
citizen, Roemer by name.

His spouse, Anna Bregers,
well known in the town,
when they wrote the year
1600. On January 9th,
in the morning'at three,
bare two boys and five
maidens at the one time.

They having received holy
baptism, died a blessed
death on the 20th of the
same month at twelve
o’clock. May God grant
them that blessedness
which is prepared for all
believers.” Immediately
underneath follows this
statement: “The above
original monument,
through the kindness of

by Mr. John Gilmour,
451, Stockport Road,
Manchester.

A TREE AND ITS
ROOTS.

This is the photograph
of a curious maple tree
growing near the mouth
of the Green River, Ken¬
tucky, U. S. A. Some
years ago the tree was on
solid ground, but the
gradual washing of the
river has completely un¬
dermined, it, leaving bare
the roots in the strange
manner seen in the photo¬
graph. . The sender, Mr.
D. A. Watt, of the United
States Engineer Office,
Bowling Green, Ken¬
tucky, U.S.A., states that
the tree is still vigorous
and healthy, and cer*
tainly it does not seem
to suffer in the slightest
from the exposure.

the Burgomaster Domeier, has again been received by
Hoppe, clerk of the court, the present owner of this house,
formerly belonging to the Roemer family, and by him
re-erected in the year 1818.” This record is perhaps all
the more remarkable when it is noticed that the seven
children were born on the 9th of January, and did not die
“ a blessed death ”
until the 20th of
the same month.

The sender of the
photograph is
Fraulein M. H.

Hillmuth, Werder,

Hameln, Prov.

Hanover', Ger¬
many.

THE EFFECT OF
A JUMP.

This isn’t the
tail end of a whirl-
wind, but the
photograph of a
large St. Bernard
dog taken in the
act of jumping on
his master, who is
holding out a
tempting morsel
for him. The cur¬
ious “door-mat”
effect is due to the
fact that rather too
long an exposure
was made. The
individual in the
photograph is 5 ft.

11 in. in height,
which gives an
idea as to the ex¬
tent of the dog’s
leap. The photo¬
graph was sent in

CURIOSITIES.

495

THE DOG THAT PRINTS A PAPER.

Gyp is the property of Messrs. Carroll and Bowers,
proprietors of the Plymouth Review , of Plymouth,
Wisconsin. He is one of their faithful henchmen,
always reliable and never on strike.

weight. Its head and fins were protruding
from the mouth of a broken jam bottle
and its body was lying in the bottom half,
the top part being missing. There is no
doubt that the fish suddenly darted and got
its head and fins through the mouth, but
could get no further owing to the size of its
body ; neither could it return on account of
its fins acting like the claws of an anchor,
and there it had to remain.

A QUAINT CUSTOM.

In the southern part of County Wexford,
in the district known as the Barony of
Forth, is to be found a race of industrious,
hard-working peasants, living in thatched
cottages with clean, whitewashed walls,
which by their perfect whiteness at once
arrest the attention of the visitor. These
people differ in many respects from the
inhabitants of the.other parts of the same
county, and have habits and customs pecu¬
liar to themselves. Our photograph—which
has been sent in by Mr. G. Madden, Springfield,
Wexford—illustrates one of these peculiar customs,
and represents a huge pile of wooden crosses to be

When the formes are ready for
printing Gyp takes his place inside
the wooden wheel, 8ft. in diameter
and 4ft. wide, shown in our illus¬
tration. The wheel is balanced on
a shaft with a pulley on the end,
which in turn drives the main shaft
and the press. For two years this
remarkable mastiff has printed the
Review , and in the wheel he works
all alone for horn's at a time, enjoy¬
ing his labour and ever anxious to
return to it. His occupation has
now made him one of the most
celebrated dogs in America.

A REMARKABLE FISH-TRAP.

The imprisoned fish seen in the
accompanying photograph—which
has been sent in by Mr. PTed.

Grant, of Guildhall, Winchester—
was discovered dead by Mr. Dumper, of Downgate,
in the North Walls, in some water that rijns at the
bottom of his garden. It was a trout of about 2lb. in

seen by the side of the road at Brandy Cross,
Kilmore. The people are devout Roman Catholics

and strong believers in the

efficacy of prayers for
the dead. When, there¬
fore, a funeral takes
place two wooden
crosses are provided;
on the way to the ceme¬
tery a halt is made at
the spot shown in the
photo., and prayers are
said for the deceased,
after which one cross is
deposited in the haw¬
thorn bush or under it ;
the procession then goes
on its way, and after
the interment the other
cross is fixed at the head
of the grave. It is hard
to account for this
stra nge proceeding,
which has been a custom
from time immemorial,

49 6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

A HOME-MADE BICYCLE.

One of the quaintest things in bicycles imaginable
is shown in our next photograph. It is made entirely
of wood, and is in every particular the work of the
old man standing alongside it. He lives near Lebanon,
Ohio, and delights in riding into the town astride his
somewhat cumbrous steed, which he propels by

touching the ground with his toes after the manner of
the old velocipede riders. By way of decoration he
carries a star-spangled banner to float in the breeze
as he goes along. When asked how fast he could
travel on his bicycle he naively replied : “ Oh, down

u;il T nml-n Koi- rrr\ \ i r-i rr TT#* r»V»r»*T»Orrn

AN ATHLETIC COW.

The cow seen in the extraordinary position de¬
lineated in the photograph is not in difficulties, but is
in the act of leaping over a fence, 4ft. high, in order
to get at the green grass on the other side. IIow the
creature came to find out where the best grazing was
to be obtained is a mystery, but according to Mr. A.
J. Chislett, station-master, Manderston, Natal, who
forwarded us the snap-shot, it had long been in the
habit of jumping this fence. You will notice that the
cow is in mid-air, none of its feet touching the ground.

A STRANGE SUPERSTITION.

In our next photograph we have a good example
of the superstition
which exists among
the Indian natives.

The photograph is
taken from the inside
of the fort of Agra,
and in the foreground
is represented a black
marble slab, which
used to be a throne of
the Mussulman Rajahs
who reigned over Agra.

From this they were
wont to watch fights
between wild animals
and men, generally
State prisoners, in the
courtyard on the left
below. “When the
King was compelled
by the British to
evacuate Agra in
1857,” writes Mr.

Lionel H. Branson,

Royal Military College,

Camberley, the sender
of the photograph, “ he
solemnly declared that
when the first Hindu
chief sat upon the
throne it would spit
and spurt blood.” The
guides of the fort
point out the crack
depicted in the illus¬
tration and affirm that
the prophecy came
true, believing them¬
selves that it was
actually the case.

“ MY DOOR FLEW OPEN AND SIR DOMINICK RUSHED IN.”

{See page 506 .)

The Strand Magazine.

Vol. xvii.

MAY, 1899.

No. 101.

Round the Fire.

XII.—THE STORY OF THE BROWN HAND.
By A. Conan Doyle.

VERYONE knows that Sir
Dominick Holden, the famous
Indian surgeon, made me his
heir, and that his death
changed me in an hour from a
hard-working and impecunious
medical man to a well-to-do landed proprietor.
Many know also that there were at least five
people between the inheritance and me, and
that Sir Dominick’s selection appeared to be
altogether arbitrary and whimsical. I can
assure them, however, that they are quite
mistaken, and that, although I only knew Sir
Dominick in the closing years of his life,
there were none the less very real reasons
why he should show his goodwill towards
me. As a matter of fact, though I say it
myself, no man ever did more for another
than I did for my Indian uncle. I cannot
expect the story to be believed, but it is so
singular that I should feel that it was a
breach of duty if I did not put it upon
record—so here it is, and your belief or
incredulity is your own affair.

Sir Dominick Holden, C.B., K.C.S.I., and
I don’t know what besides, was the most dis¬
tinguished Indian surgeon of his day. In
the Army originally, he afterwards settled
down into civil practice in Bombay, and
visited as a consultant every part of India.
His name is best remembered in connection
with the Oriental Hospital, which he
founded and supported. The time came,
however, when his iron constitution began
to show signs of the long strain to which he
had subjected it, and his brother prac¬
titioners (who were not, perhaps, entirely

disinterested upon the point) were unani¬
mous in recommending him to return to
England. He held on as long as he could,
but at last he developed nervous symptoms of
a very pronounced character, and so came
back, a broken man, to his native county of
Wiltshire. He bought a considerable estate
with an ancient manor-house upon the edge
of Salisbury Plain, and devoted his old age
to the study of Comparative Pathology, which
had been his learned hobby all his life, and
in which he was a foremost authority.

We of the family were, as may be imagined,
much excited by the news of the return of
this rich and childless uncle to England. On
his part, although by no means exuberant in
his hospitality, he showed some sense of his
duty to his relations, and each of us in turn
had an invitation to visit Him. From the
accounts of my cousins it appeared to be a
melancholy business, and it was with mixed
feelings that I at last received my own
summons to appear at Rodenhurst. My'wife
was so carefully excluded in the invitation
that my first impulse was to refuse it, but the
interests of the children had to be considered,
and so, with her consent, I set out one
October afternoon upon my visit to Wiltshire,
with little thought of what that visit was to
entail.

My uncle’s estate was situated where the
arable land of the plains begins to swell up¬
wards into the rounded chalk hills which are
characteristic of the county. As I drove
from Dinton Station in the waning light of
that autumn day, I was impressed by the
weird nature of the scenery. The few

Vol. xvii.—63

5 °°

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

scattered cottages of the peasants were so
dwarfed by the huge evidences of prehistoric
life, that the present appeared to be a dream
and the past to be the obtrusive and
masterful reality. The road wound through
the valleys, formed by a succession of grassy
hills, and the summit of each was cut and
carved into the most elaborate fortifications,
some circular and some square, but all on a
scale which has defied the winds and the
rains of many centuries. Some call them
Roman and some British, but their true
origin and the reasons for this particular
tract of country being so interlaced with en¬
trenchments have never been finally made
clear. Here and there on the long, smooth,
olive-coloured slopes there
rose small rounded bar-
rows or tumuli. Beneath
them lie the cremated
ashes of the race which
cut so deeply into the
hills, but their graves tell
us nothing save that a
jar full of dust repre¬
sents the man who once
laboured under the sun.

It was through this
weird country that I ap¬
proached my uncle’s resi¬
dence of Rodenhurst, and
the house was, as I found,
in due keeping with its
surroundings. Two broken
and weather - stained pil¬
lars, each surmounted by
a mutilated heraldic
emblem, flanked the
entrance to a neglected drive.

A cold wind whistled through
the elms which lined it, and
the air was full of the drifting
leaves. At the far end, under
the gloomy arch of trees, a
single yellow lamp burned
steadily. In the dim half-light
of the coming night I saw a
long, low building stretching
out two irregular wings, with
deep eaves, a sloping gambrel roof, and
walls which were criss-crossed with timber
balks in the fashion of the Tudors. The
cheery light of a fire flickered in the broad,
latticed window to the left of the low-
porched door, and this, as it proved, marked
the study of my uncle, for it was thither that
I was led by his butler in order to make my
host’s acquaintance.

He was cowering over his fire, for the

moist chill of an English autumn had set him
shivering. His lamp was unlit, and 1 only
saw the red glow of the embers beating upon
a huge, craggy face, with a Red Indian nose
and cheek, and deep furrows and seams from
eye to chin, the sinister marks of hidden
volcanic fires. He sprang up at my entrance
with something of an old-world courtesy and
welcomed me warmly to Rodenhurst. At
the same time I was conscious, as the lamp
was carried in, that it was a very critical pair
of light blue eyes which looked out at me
from under shaggy eyebrows, like scouts
beneath a bush, and that this outlandish
uncle of mine was carefully reading off my
character with all the ease of a practised

5 *

“ HE welcomed me warmly to rodenhurst.”

observer and an experienced man of the
world.

For my part I looked at him, and looked
again, for I had never seen a man whose
appearance was more fitted to hold one’s
attention. His figure was the framework
of a giant, but he had fallen away until
his coat dangled straight down in a shock¬
ing fashion from a pair of broad and
bony shoulders. All his limbs were huge

ROUND . THE FIRE .

and yet emaciated, and I could not take my
gaze from his knobby wrists, and long,
gnarled hands. But his eyes—those peering
light blue eyes—they were the most arrestive
of any of his peculiarities. It was not their
colour alone, nor was it the ambush of hair
in which they lurked; but it was the expres¬
sion which I read in them. For the appear¬
ance and bearing of the man were masterful,
and one expected a certain corresponding
arrogance in his eyes, but instead of that 1
read the look which tells of a spirit cowed
and crushed, the furtive, expectant look of
the dog whose master has taken the
whip from the rack. I formed my own
medical diagnosis upon one glance at those
critical and yet appealing eyes. I believed
that he was stricken with some mortal
ailment, that he knew himself to be exposed
to sudden death, and that he lived in
terror of it. Such was my judgment a
false one, as the event showed; but 1 men¬
tion it that it may help you to realize the
look which I read in his eyes.

My uncle’s welcome was, as I have said,
a courteous one, and in an hour or so I
found myself seated between him and his
wife at a comfortable dinner, with curious
pungent delicacies upon the table, and a
stealthy, quick-eyed Oriental waiter behind
his chair. The old couple had come round
to that tragic imitation of the dawn of life
when husband and wife, having lost or scat¬
tered all those who were their intimates, find
themselves face to face and alone once more,
their work done, and the end nearing fast.
Those who have reached that stage in sweet¬
ness and love, who can change their winter
into a gentle Indian summer, have come as
victors through the ordeal of life. Lady
Holden was a small, alert woman, with a
kindly eye, and her expression as she glanced
at him was a certificate of character to her
husband. And yet, though I read a mutual
love in their glances, I read also a mutual
horror, and recognised in her face some
reflection of that stealthy fear which I detected
in his. Their talk was sometimes merry and
sometimes sad, but there was a forced note
in their merriment and a naturalness in their
sadness which told me that a heavy heart
beat upon either side of me.

We were sitting over our first glass of wine,
and the servants had left the room, when the
conversation took a turn which produced a
remarkable effect upon my host and hostess.
I cannot recall what it was which started the
topic of the supernatural, but it ended in my
showing them that the abnormal in psychical

5 OT

experiences was a subject to which I had, like
many neurologists, devoted a great deal of
attention. I concluded by narrating my ex¬
periences when, as a member of the Psychical
Research Society, I had formed one of a
committee of three who spent the night in a
haunted house. Our adventures were neither
exciting nor convincing, but, such as it was,
the story appeared to interest my auditors
in a remarkable degree. They listened with
an eager silence, and I caught a look of
intelligence between them which I could not
understand. Lady Holden immediately after¬
wards rose and left the room.

Sir Dominick pushed the cigar-box over to
me, and we smoked for some little time in
silence. That huge bony hand of his was
twitching as he raised it with his cheroot to
his lips, and I felt that the man’s nerves were
vibrating like fiddle-strings. My instincts
told me that he was on the verge of some
intimate confidence, and 1 feared to speak
lest 1 should interrupt it. At last he turned
towards me with a spasmodic gesture like a
man who throws his last scruple to the winds.

“ From the little that I have seen of you it
appears to me, Dr. Hardacre,” said he, “that
you are the very man I have wanted to meet.”

“ I am delighted to hear it, sir.”

“ Your head seems to be cool and steady.
You will acquit me of any desire to flatter
you, for the circumstances are too serious
to permit of insincerities. You have some
special knowledge upon these subjects, and
you evidently view them from that philo¬
sophical standpoint which robs them of all
vulgar terror. I presume that the sight of
an apparition would not seriously discompose
you ? ”

“ I think not, sir.”

“ Would even interest you, perhaps ? ”

“ Most intensely.”

“As a psychical observer, you would
probably investigate it in as impersonal a
fashion as an astronomer investigates a
wandering comet ? ”

“ Precisely.”

He gave a heavy sigh.

“Believe me, Dr. Hardacre, there was a
time when I could have spoken as you do
now. My nerve was a by-word in India.
Even the Mutiny never shook it for an
instant. And yet you see what I am re¬
duced to—the most timorous man, perhaps,
in all this county of Wiltshire. Do not speak
too bravely upon this subject, or you may
find yourself subjected to as long-drawn a
test as I am—a test which can only end in
the madhouse or the grave.”

5° 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

I waited patiently until lie should see fit
to go farther in his confidence. His pre¬
amble had, I need not say, filled me with
interest and expectation.

“ For some years, Dr. Hardacre,” he con¬
tinued, “ my life and that of my wife have
been made miserable by a cause which is so
grotesque that it borders upon the ludicrous.
And yet familiarity has never made it more
easy to bear—on the contrary, as time passes
my nerves become more worn and shattered
by the constant attrition. If you have no
physical fears, Dr. Hardacre, I should very

much value your opinion upon this pheno¬
menon which troubles us so.”

“ For what it is worth my opinion is
entirely at your service. May 1 ask the
nature of the phenomenon ? ”

“ I think that your experiences will have a
higher evidential value if you are not told in
advance what you may expect to encounter.
You are yourself aware of the quibbles of
unconscious cerebration and subjective im¬
pressions with which a scientific sceptic may
throw a doubt upon your statement. It

would be as well to guard against them in
advance.”

“ What shall I do, then ? ”

“ I will tell you. Would you mind follow¬
ing me this way ? ” He led me out of the
dining-room and down a long passage until
we came to a terminal door. Inside there
was a large bare room fitted as a laboratory,
with numerous scientific instruments and
bottles. A shelf ran along one side, upon
which there stood a long line of glass jars
containing pathological and anatomical
specimens.

“ You see that I still dabble in
some of my old studies,” said Sir
Dominick. “ These jars are the
remains of what was once a most
excellent collection, but unfortu¬
nately I lost the greater
part of them when my
house was burned down
in Bombay in ’92. It
was a most unfortunate
affair for me—in more
ways than one. I had
examples of many very
rare conditions, and my
splenic collection was
probably unique. These
are the survivors.”

I glanced over them,
and saw that they really
were of a very great value
and rarity from a patho¬
logical point of view:
bloated organs, gaping
cysts, distorted bones,
odious parasites—a sin¬
gular exhibition of the
products of India.

“ There is, as you see,
a small settee here,” said
my host. “It was far
from our intention to
offer a guest so meagre
an accommodation, but
since affairs have taken
this turn, it would be a great kindness
upon your part if you would consent, to
spend the night in this apartment. I beg
that you will not hesitate to let me know
if the idea should be at all repugnant
to you.”

“ On the contrary,” I said, “ it is most
acceptable.”

“ My own room is the second on the left,
so that if you should feel that you are in
need of company a call would always bring
me to your side.”

“ AS TIME PASSES MY NERVES BECOME MORE WORN AND SHATTERED.”

ROUND THE FIRE.

5°3

“ I trust that I shall not be compelled to
disturb you.”

“ It is unlikely that I shall be asleep. I
do not sleep much. Do not hesitate to
summon me.”

And so with this agreement we joined Lady
Holden in the drawing-room and talked of
lighter things.

It was no affectation upon my part to say
that the prospect of my night’s adventure
was an agreeable one. I have no pretence
to greater physical courage than my neigh¬
bours, but familiarity with a subject robs it
of those vague and undefined terrors which
are the most appalling to the imaginative
mind. The human brain is capable of
only one strong emotion at a time, and
if it be filled with curiosity or scientific
enthusiasm, there is no room for fear. It is
true that I had my uncle’s assurance that he
had himself originally taken this point of
view, but I reflected that the breakdown of
his nervous system might be due
to his forty years in India as
much as to any psychical experi¬
ences which had befallen him.

I at least was sound in nerve
and brain, and it was with some¬
thing of the pleasurable thrill of
anticipation with which the
sportsman takes his position
beside the haunt of his game
that I shut the laboratory door
behind me, and partially undress¬
ing, lay down upon the rug-
covered settee.

It was not an ideal atmosphere
for a bedroom. The air was
heavy with many chemical
odours, that of methylated spirit
predominating. Nor were the
decorations of my chamber very
sedative. The odious line of glass
jars with their relics of disease
and suffering stretched in front
of my very eyes. There was no
blind to the window, and a three-
quarter moon streamed its white
light into the room, tracing a
silver square with filigree lattices
upon the opposite wall. When
I had extinguished my candle this
one bright patch in the midst of
the general gloom had certainly
an eerie and discomposing aspect.

A rigid and absolute silence
reigned throughout the old house,
so that the low swish of the
branches in the garden came softly

and soothingly to my ears. It may have
been the hypnotic lullaby of this gentle susur-
rus, or it may have been the result of my
tiring day, but after many dozings and many
efforts to regain my clearness of perception, I
fell at last into a deep and dreamless sleep.

I was awakened by some sound in the
room, and I instantly raised myself upon my
elbow on the couch. Some hours had passed,
for the square patch upon the wall had slid
downwards and sideways until it lay obliquely
at the end of my bed. The rest of the room
was in deep shadow. At first I could see
nothing, but presently, as my eyes became
accustomed to the faint light, I was aware,
with a thrill which all my scientific absorption
could not entirely prevent, that something was
moving slowly along the line of the wall. A
gentle, shuffling sound, as of soft slippers, came
to my ears, and I dimly discerned a human
figure walking stealthily from the direction of
the door. As it emerged into the patch of

HIS EYES WERE CAST UPWARDS TOWARDS THE DINE OF BOTTLES. ’

5 ° 4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

moonlight I saw very clearly what it was and
how it was employed. It was a man, short
and squat, dressed in some sort of dark grey
gown, which hung straight from his shoulders
to his feet. The moon shone upon the side
of his face, and I saw that it was chocolate-
brown in colour, with a ball of black hair
like a woman’s at the back of his head. He
walked slowly, and his eyes were cast upwards
towards the line of bottles which contained
those gruesome remnants of humanity. He
seemed to examine each jar with attention,
and then to pass on to the next. When he
had come to the end of the line, immediately
opposite my

bed, he stopped, r ——- . ^ —

faced me, threw
up his hands
with a gesture
of despair, and
vanished from
my sight.

I have said
that he threw
up his hands,
but I should
have said his
arms, for as he
assumed that
attitude of des¬
pair I observed
a singular
peculiarity
about his ap¬
pearance. He
had only one i
hand ! As the
sleeves drooped
down from the j
upflung arms T.
saw the left
plainly, but the
right ended in a
knobby and un¬
sightly stump.

In every other
way his appear
ance was so

laws of Nature in his appearance. I lay
awake for the remainder of the night, but
nothing else occurred to disturb me.

I am an early riser, but my uncle was an
even earlier one, for I found him pacing up
and down the lawn at the side of the house.
He ran towards me in his eagerness when he
saw me come out from the door.

“ Well, well ! ” he cried. “ Did you see
him?”

“ An Indian with one hand? ”

“ Precisely.”

“Yes, I saw him ” and I told him all that
occurred. When 1 had finished, he led the

way into his

_^ study.

“We have a
little time before
breakfast,” said
he. “It will
suffice to give
you an explana-
tio n of this
extraordinary
affair—so far as
I can explain
that which is
essentially in¬
explicable. In
the first place,
when I tell you
that for four
years 1 have
never passed
one single night,
either in Bom¬
bay, aboard
ship, or here in
England with¬
out my sleep,
being broken by.
this fellow, you
will understand
why it is that 1
am a wreck of
my former self.
His programme

‘ i TOLD HIM ALL THAT HAD OCGLKKED.

natural, and 1 had both
seen and heard him so clearly, that I could
easily have believed that he was an
Indian servant of Sir Dominick’s who had
come into my room in search of something.
It was only his sudden disappearance which
would have suggested anything more sinister
to me. As it was I sprang from my couch,
lit a candle, and examined the whole room
carefully. 'There were no signs of my visitor,
and I was forced to conclude that there had
really been something outside the normal

is always the same. He ; appears by my bed¬
side, shakes me roughly by the shoulder,
passes from my room into the laboratory,
walks slowly along the line of my bottles, and
then vanishes.- For more than a thousand
times he has gone through the same routine.’

“ What does he want ? ”

“ He wants his hand.”

“His hand?”

“ Yes, it came about in this way. I was
summoned to Peshawur lor a consultation
some ten years ago, and while there I was

ROUND THE FIRE,

5°5

asked to look at the hand of a native who
was passing through with an Afghan caravan.
The fellow came from some mountain tribe
living away at the back of beyond some¬
where on the other side of Kaffiristan. He
talked a bastard Pushtoo, and it was all I
could do to understand him. He was
suffering from a soft sarcomatous swelling of
one of the metacarpal joints, and I made
him realize that it was only by losing his
hand that he could hope to save his life.
After much persuasion he consented to the
operation, and he asked me, when it was
over, what fee I demanded. The poor fellow
was almost a beggar, so that the idea of a
fee was absurd, but I answered in jest that
my fee should be his hand, and that I pro¬
posed to add it to my pathological collection.

“ To my surprise he demurred very much
to the suggestion, and he explained that
according to his religion it was an all-im¬
portant matter that the body should be re¬
united after death, and so make a perfect
dwelling for the spirit. The belief is, of
course, an old one, and the mummies of the
Egyptians arose from an analogous super¬
stition. I answered him that his hand was
already off, and asked him how he intended
to preserve it. He replied that he would
pickle it in salt and carry it about with him.
I suggested that it might be safer in my
keeping than in his, and that I had better
means than salt for preserving it. On
realizing that I really intended to carefully
keep it, his opposition vanished instantly.
4 But remember, sahib,’ said he, 4 1 shall
want it back when I am dead.’ I laughed
at the remark, and so the matter ended. I
returned to my practice, and he no doubt in
the course of time was able to continue his
journey to Afghanistan.

“ Well, as I told you last night, I had a
bad lire in my house at Bombay. Half of it
was burned down, and, among other things,
my pathological collection was largely
destroyed. What you see are the poor
remains of it. The hand of the hillman
went with the rest, but I gave the matter no
particular thought at the time. That was
six years ago.

“ Four years ago—two years after the fire
—I was awakened one night by a furious
tugging at my sleeve. I sat up under the
impression that my favourite mastiff was
trying to arouse me. Instead of this, I saw
my Indian patient of long ago, dressed in the
long grey gown which was the badge of his
people. He was holding up his. stump and
looking reproachfully at me. He then went

Vol. xvii.- 64

over to my bottles, which at that time I kept
in my room, and he examined them carefully,
after which he gave a gesture of anger and
vanished. I realized that he had just died,
and that he had come to claim my promise
that I should keep his limb in safety for him.

44 Well, there you have it all, Dr. Hardacre.
Every night at the same hour for four years
this performance has been repeated. It is a
simple thing in itself, but it has worn me out
like water dropping on a stone. It has
brought a vile insomnia with it, for I cannot
sleep now for the expectation of his coming.
It has poisoned my old age and that of my
wife, who has been the sharer in this great
trouble. But there is the breakfast gong,
and she will be waiting impatiently to know
how it fared with you last night. We are
both much indebted to you for your gallantry,
for it takes something from the weight of our
misfortune when we share it, even for a single
night, with a friend, and it reassures us as to
our sanity, which we are sometimes driven to
question.”

This was the curious narrative .which Sir
Dominick confided to me—a story which to
many would have appeared to be a grotesque
impossibility, but which, after my experience
of the night before, and my previous know¬
ledge of such things, I was prepared to
accept as an absolute fact. 1 thought deeply
over the matter, and brought the whole
range of my reading and experience to bear
upon it. After breakfast, I surprised my host
and hostess by announcing that I was return¬
ing to London by the next train.

44 My dear doctor,” cried Sir Dominick, in
great distress, 44 you make me feel that I have
been guilty of a gross breach of hospitality in
intruding this unfortunate matter upon you.
I should have borne my own burden.”

44 It is, indeed, that matter which is taking
me to London,” I answered; 44 but you are
mistaken, I assure you, if you think that my
experience of last night was an unpleasant
one to me. On the contrary, I am about to
ask your permission to return in the evening
and spend one more night in your laboratory.
I am very eager to see this visitor once
again.”

My uncle was exceedingly anxious to know
what I was about to do, but my fears of rais¬
ing false hopes prevented me from telling him.
I was back in my own consulting-room a
little after luncheon, and was confirming my
memory of a passage in a recent book upon
occultism which had arrested my attention
when I read it.

44 In the case of earth-bound spirits,” said

5°6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

A RECENT HOOK UPON OCCULTISM.”

my authority, “ some one dominant idea obses¬
sing them at the hour of death is sufficient to
hold them to this material world. They are the
amphibia of this life and of the next, capable
of passing from one to the other as the turtle
passes from land to water. The causes
which may bind a soul so strongly to a life
which its body has abandoned are any violent
emotion. Avarice, revenge, anxiety, love,
and pity have all been known to have this
effect. As a rule it springs from some un¬
fulfilled wish, and when the wish has been
fulfilled the material bond relaxes. There
are many cases upon record which show the
singular persistence of these visitors, and also
their disappearance when their wishes have
been fulfilled, or in some cases when a reason¬
able compromise has been effected.”

“ A reasonable compromise effected -those
were the words which I had brooded over all
the morning, and which I now verified in
the original. No actual atonement could be
made here- but a reasonable compromise!
1 made my way as fast as a train could take
me to the Shadwell Seamen’s Hospital, where
my old friend Jack Hewett was house-surgeon.
Without explaining the situation I made him
understand exactly what it was that I wanted.

“ A brown man’s hand ! ” said he, in

amazement. “ What in the world do
you want that for ? ”

“Never mind. I’ll tell you some day.
I know that your wards are full of
Indians.”

“ I should think so. But a hand-”

He thought a little and then struck a bell.

“ Travers,” said he to a student-dresser,
“ what became of the hands of the
Lascar which we took off yesterday? I
mean the fellow from the East India Dock
who got caught in the steam winch.”

“ They are in the post-mortem room,
sir.”

“ Just pack one of them in antiseptics
and give it to Dr. Hardacre.”

And so I found myself back at
Rodenhurst before dinner with this
curious outcome of my day in town. I
still said nothing to Sir Dominick, but
I slept that night in the laboratory, and I
placed the Lascar’s hand in one of the
glass jars at the end of my couch.

So interested was 1 in the result
of my experiment that sleep was out
of the question. I sat with a shaded
lamp beside me and waited patiently for
my visitor. This time I saw him clearly
from the first. He appeared beside
the door, nebulous for an instant, and
then hardening into as distinct an outline as
any living man. The slippers beneath his
grey gown were red and heelless, which
accounted for the low, shuffling sound which
he made as he walked. As on the previous
night he passed slowly along the line of bottles
until he paused before that which contained
the hand. He reached up to it, his whole
figure quivering with expectation, took it
down, examined it eagerly, and then, with a
face which was convulsed with fury and dis¬
appointment, he hurled it down on to the
floor. There was a crash which resounded
through the house, and when I looked up
the mutilated Indian had disappeared. A
moment later my door flew open and Sir
Dominick rushed in.

“You are not hurt ? ” he cried.

“ No — but deeply disappointed.”

He looked in astonishment at the splinters
of glass, and the brown hand lying upon the
floor.

“ Good God ! ” he cried. “ What is this?”
I told him my idea and its wretched sequel.
He listened intently, but shook his head.

“ It was well thought of,” said he, “ but I
fear that there is no such easy end to my
sufferings. t But one thing I now insist upon.
It is that you shall never again upon any

ROUND THE EIRE.

5°7

pretext occupy this room. My fears that
something might have happened to you—
when I heard that crash—have been the
most acute of all the agonies which I have
undergone. I will not expose myself to a
repetition of it.”

He allowed me, however, to spend the
remainder of that night where I was, and I
lay there worrying over the problem and
lamenting my own failure. With the first
light of morning there was the Lascar’s hand
still lying upon the floor to remind me of
my fiasco. I lay looking at it—and as I lay
suddenly an idea flew like a bullet through

in the post-mortem room. And so i returned
to Rodenhurst in the evening with my
mission accomplished and the material for a
fresh experiment.

But Sir Dominick Holden would not hear
of my occupying the laboratory again. To
all my entreaties he turned a deaf ear. It
offended his sense of hospitality, and he
could no longer permit it. I left the hand,
therefore, as I had done its fellow the night
before, and I occupied a comfortable bed¬
room in another portion of the house, some
distance from the scene of my adventures.

But in spite of that my sleep was not

my head and brought me quivering with
excitement out of my couch. I raised the
grim relic from where it had fallen. Yes, it
was indeed so. The hand was the left hand
of the Lascar.

By the* first train I was on my way to
town, and hurried at once to the Seamen’s
Hospital. I remembered that both hands
of the Lascar had been amputated, but I
was terrified lest the precious organ which I
was in search of might have been already
consumed in the crematory. My suspense
was soon ended. It had still been preserved

destined to be uninterrupted. In the dead
of the night my host burst into my room, a
lamp in his hand. His huge gaunt figure
was enveloped in a loose dressing-gown, and
his whole appearance might certainly have
seemed more formidable to a weak-nerved
man than that of the Indian of the night
before. But it was not his entrance so much
as his expression which amazed me. He had
turned suddenly younger by twenty years at
the least. His eyes were shining, his features
radiant, and he waved one hand in triumph
over his head, I sat up astounded, staring

5°8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

sleepily at this extraordinary visitor. But his
words soon drove the sleep from my eyes.

“ We have done it! We have succeeded ! ”
he shouted. “ My dear Hardacre, how can
I ever in this world repay you ? ”

“You don’t mean to say that it is all
right ? ”

“ Indeed I do. I was sure that you would
not mind being awakened to hear such blessed
news.”

“ Mind ! I should think not indeed. But
is it really certain ? ”

“ I have no doubt whatever upon the
point. I owe you such a debt, my dear
nephew, as I never owed a man before, and
never expected to. What can I possibly do
for you that is commensurate? Providence
must have sent you to my rescue. You have
saved both my reason and my life, for another
six months of this must have seen me either
in a cell or a coffin. And my wife—it was
wearing her out before my eyes. Never
could I have believed that any human being
could have lifted this burden off me.” He
seized my hand and wrung it in his bony
grip.

“ It was only an experiment—a forlorn
hope—but I am delighted from my heart
that it has succeeded. But how do you
know that all is right? Have you seen
something ? ”

He seated himself at the foot of my bed.

“ I have seen enough,” said he. “ It
satisfies me that I shall be troubled no more.
What has passed is easily told. You know
that at a certain hour this creature always
comes to me. To-night he arrived at the
usual time, and aroused me with even more
violence than is his custom. I can only
surmise that his disappointment of last night

increased the bitterness of his anger against
me. He looked angrily at me and then
went on his usual round. But in a few
minutes I saw him, for the first time since
this persecution began, return to my chamber.
He was smiling. I saw the gleam of his
white teeth through the dim light. He
stood facing me at the end of my bed,
and three times he made the low Eastern
salaam which is their solemn leave-taking.
And the third time that he bowed he raised
his arms over his head, and I saw his two
hands outstretched in the air. So he vanished,
and, as I believe, for ever.”

So that is the curious experience which
won me the affection and the gratitude of my
celebrated uncle, the famous Indian surgeon.
His anticipations were realized, and never
again was he disturbed by the visits of the
restless hillman in search of his lost member.
Sir Dominick and Lady Holden spent a very
happy old age, unclouded, as far as I know, by
any trouble, and they finally'died during the
great influenza epidemic within a few weeks
of each other. In his lifetime he always
turned to me for advice in everything which
concerned that English life of which he
knew so little; and I aided him also in the
purchase and development of his estates.
It was no great surprise to me, therefore,
that I found myself eventually promoted
over the heads of five exasperated cousins,
and changed in a single day from a hard¬
working country doctor into the head of an
important Wiltshire family. I at least have
reason to bless the memory of the man with
the brown hand, and the day when I was
fortunate enough to relieve Rodenhurst of
his unwelcome presence.

Illustrated Interviews.

LXIV.- MR. A. c. MacLAREN.
By Free). W. Ward.

T is a generally accepted fact
that, like a poet, a cricketer is
born, not made. The art of
batting, or of bowling, generally
runs in the
family: “like
father, like son.” If this
should not be the case,
the schoolboy gives
promise of the man. The
lad who scores freely, or
performs the hat trick with
the ball, passes on to his
county eleven. Sometimes
he comes off, as they re¬
mark in cricket parlance ;
more frequently, however,
he fails to do himself
justice, and is, perhaps,
relegated to the second
eleven before he is per¬
mitted to again pit his
strength against his com¬
peers.

There are exceptions
to every rule, however.

Mr. W. G. Grace never
looked back after he had once secured county
honours. Mr. A. C. MacLaren may fairly say
he has done likewise. He played a great innings
for his county when he was first included in
the team, and beyond a doubt Lancashire is
weakened by more than I care to say when
the Old Harrovian is miss¬
ing from her ranks.

Mr. MacLaren, although
he has visited the An¬
tipodes twice, is yet under
thirty. To be exact, he
was born on December
ist, 1871, so that at the
present time he is but
twenty-eight years of age.

As a schoolboy he dis¬
played remarkable apti¬
tude for the game, but
did not come before the
public prominently until
the Eton v. Harrow match
of 1887. Even at that
early date Mr. MacLaren
displayed all the finish
of an experienced bats¬
man : possibly he possessed
even more polish then

than now, but he lacked generalship and
hitting power. Be that as it may, he was
the top scorer for his side in either innings
with 55 and 67, but despite these individual
efforts, Harrow lost by
five wickets.

In 1888, however, his
school defeated Eton by
156 runs. Curiously
enough, Mr. MacLaren
had very little to do with
this result, for he made
but o (that dreaded duck !)
and 4, while his ill-fortune
pursued him a twelve-
month later, Harrow gain¬
ing an easy victory, while
he scored but 17 and 16.

Still, every cloud has its
silver lining, and this form
was far too bad to be
true. In 1890 Mr. Mac¬
Laren captained the Har¬
row eleven against Eton.
He was the first to go to
the wickets, but he was
also the seventh to leave.
He hit the bowling to all parts of the
field ; the spectators of this ultra fashion¬
able fixture were never provided with better
value for their time spent round the ring;
the young batsman had made 76 before
he returned to the pavilion.

This performance natur¬
ally placed the seal of
excellence upon his play,
and he was asked to repre¬
sent Lancashire in her
county fixtures. Mr. Mac¬
Laren came, saw, and con¬
quered, for against Sussex
at Brighton on August
14th he hit up what was
practically a faultless 108.
How many players are
there who have effected a
similar performance,
coming into county cricket
from a public school style
of play ? I can recollect
no other.

Following Mr. Hornby
and Mr. Crosfield, Mr.
MacLaren was elected
captain of the Lancashire

MR. MACLAREN, AGED 6 MONTHS.
From a Photo, bn Arthur Reston , Manchester.

MR. MACLAREN, AGED 18 MONTHS.
Fforn a Photo, by Arthur Heston, Manchester.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

5 IQ

team, and in 1895 scored the highest indi¬
vidual innings yet made in first-class cricket.
Playing against Somerset, at Taunton, in
July, he compiled 424 runs, thus beating
the 344 standing to the credit of Mr. W.
G. Grace by a no un¬
certain margin.

Prior to this, how¬
ever, Mr. MacLaren
had toured through
Australia as one of
Mr. A. E. Stoddart’s
eleven. He was a
success, for he secured
the second place upon
the batting averages :

47*4 for twenty inn¬
ings in eleven a-side
matches, and 40*9 for
thirty-three innings, all
matches played being
considered. More than
that, he was also busy
amongst the “ centu¬
rions if I may be
pardoned for the use
of the word. Against
Victoria, on November
16th, he placed 228—
his highest total for
the tour — against his
name, this being fol¬
lowed by 106 v.

Queensland and New
South Wales on Feb¬
ruary 15th, and 120 against Australia, at
Melbourne, on March 1st.

Mr. MacLaren’s performa-nces for his
county need no comment from me, but I
may just touch briefly upon his last Austra¬
lian tour. Pie wooed and won his bride
“ down under,” and he never played better
cricket in his life than when last at the
Antipodes. We were fairly and squarely
beaten in the test matches, 1 am ready to
admit that; but Mr. MacLaren can look back
upon the visit with feelings of unalloyed
satisfaction.

In the five test matches he was at the head
of the batting averages with 54*22 runs for
ten innings, 124 being his highest contribu¬
tion. In the eleven a-side matches his
average was 54*57 for twenty innings, and in
all matches 54*34 for twenty-eight innings.

These figures speak for themselves, but I
may add Mr. MacLaren was also responsible
for exactly half-a-dozen centuries during the
tour: 181 v. Thirteen of Queensland and
New South Wales; 142 v. New South Wales;

140 v. New South Wales (the return match);
.124 v . Australia, at Adelaide; 109 v. Aus¬
tralia, at Sydney; and 100 v. New South
Wales, also at Sydney.

Returning home, the Lancashire captain
could only take part
in six of the county
fixtures. In these he
secured an average of
23*3°, with 76 as his
highest contribution.
But he was as dashing
as of old while at the
wicket, and even
smarter in the field.
At slip or at cover-
slip he appears to judge
the flight of the ball
unerringly, while
boundary after bound¬
ary is saved by the
manner in which he
picks up the fastest
cut, snick, or drive
with either hand. 1
was ruminating over
these things as the
South-Western express
whirled me away over
the gleaming metals
to Wokingham, where,
in a delightful old
countryside mansion,
Mr. MacLaren has
established himself in
the heart of as delightful scenery as may well
be met with within a hundred miles of London.

There, in his study, he sat and chatted
over cricket matters. The Lancashire eleven,
the great scene at the Oval after the finish of
the last test match there—these and kindred
pictures reflected the ruddy fireglow from the
walls. Outside, the sun was throwing its
rays athwart the gravelled drive; there was
the indefinite hum inseparable from the
country, the missel thrushes and the black¬
birds disported themselves among the trees,
just budding into life; while, stranger still,
the red coat and bushy tail of a squirrel
could be seen just at the edge of the copse
that ran down to the lawn.

But this is not cricket. I must drag
myself away. The memory of the Harrow v.
Eton match I have already referred to was
crossing my mind. I lost no time, but,
plunging directly into my subject, wondered
what the Lancashire captain thought of
public school cricket of these days. Did it
compare favourably with days that are past

MR. MACLAREN, AGED 6.
From a Photo, by Lafosse , Manchester.

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS,

and gone ? Mr. MacLaren hesitated slightly
ere he replied. But there were no signs of
hesitation when he was once induced to talk.

“ No,” he remarked; “ I really do not
think public school cricket, as cricket, has
advanced since a few years back. I can
naturally only speak of Harrow personally;
yet what do we find? That year by year these
public school matches remain drawn ; they
are not finished in the time allowed for their
decision.

“And why? That is a difficult question
to answer. My own opinion is, gained by
watching the boys at the game, that their
batting is as good as, or maybe better than,
ever, but there is a marked falling off in the
class of bowling. Bowling is very moderate,
to say the least of it.

“ Of course, it is much easier to teach a
boy how to bat than to
teach him how to become
a successful bowler. It is
quite possible to make a
batsman, provided the boy
is willing to listen to the
hints, and possesses some
idea of the game; but the
best coach cannot make a
successful bowler.

“ In saying this, 1 may
explain that you can give a
boy hints in bowling, but
he must be born, not made.

He may be told a few
things, how to place his
feet as he delivers the ball,
and what length of run is
best to take ; but he cannot
be made a real bowler under
these conditions unless he
has an inclination for that
kind of work. Unfortunately, too, a school¬
boy does not, as a rule, take so kindly to
bowling as to batting. There is not the same
pleasure in bowling from his point of view:
he has not the same inducement in attempt¬
ing to secure wickets, and as a natural conse¬
quence, public school bowling, I am sorry
to say, is becoming worse, instead of better,
every year. I am sorry to say this is the
case, but it is a fact.

“As regards University cricket, I am a
little diffident in touching this, seeing that
I have only played about twice against
Cambridge. But I think the same criticism
will apply as in the public schools: that
batting is advancing, while the bowling is at
least standing still, if not falling off in quality.

“We get very few real bowlers from the

5ii

’Varsities now. Yes, we have had Mr. C. L.
Townsend, Mr. F. S. Jackson, Mr. S. M. J.
Woods, and Mr. Kortright, men who are
worth their places in a county team for this
department alone ; but what I complain of is,
that we get no new blood.

“ As a matter of fact, I cannot say who is
their best real bowler. No, I fear they can¬
not produce anyone approaching the stamp
of the late Mr. A. G. Steele. Of course,
Mr. C. M. Wells is a good bowler, but he
has left his University for a long time now.
He was the last of the bowlers to come from
either Oxford or Cambridge; since he left,
they have produced none that might be
termed really first-class.”

After this expression of opinion upon what
are generally looked upon as the training
grounds for county cricket, it was difficult to
muster up courage sufficient
to enable me to suggest
amateur cricket as a whole.

But Mr. MacLaren re¬
assured me at once.

“ Amateur cricket,” he
opined, “is improving, and
in this way there are more
good cricketers now than
there were in the past. But ”
(and here he qualified it)
“ the players of the present
day are no better than they
were twenty years ago.
There are more of them,
that is all. There are more
good batsmen to-day than
there were at the time I
have mentioned, but that
may be explained by the
growth of the game. The
bowling, I think, must have
been better then than now, and when the
best elevens are contrasted there is very little
difference to be discovered, the improvements
in the grounds also being taken into con¬
sideration.

“ Briefly, our batsmen now are as good as
the old ones, but there are more of them ;
the class of cricket is just about the same,
but the All England eleven of 1879 was
about as good as we could place in the field
now, possibly better,

“Yes, I feel constrained to admit that the
class of all-round bowling in county cricket
is to-day much below the average. Indeed,
there are not so many good bowlers now as
there were five years ago. It is impossible,
or it appears to be, to discover new bowlers
of any degree of excellence, Rhodes, of

MR. MACLAREN, AGED 12.
From a Photo, by F. Baum , Manchester.

5 12

THE STEAND MAGAZINE.

Yorkshire, being the exception. Of late
years, what have we found ? That a young
bowler of more than average form is a rarer
avis. Look at Lancashire, for instance. She
hasn’t discovered one really good bowler
during the past five years.

“Yet what a contrast we find in Australia.
They have got some bowlers; it will take our
very best All Eng¬
land side to beat
them this coming
summer. They will,
of course, be without
poor Harry Trott,
the finest captain
and one of the best
fellows I have ever
met. But it will be
found, I think, the
best eleven Australia
has ever sent across
to this country, and
one that will require
considerable beat¬
ing.”

“ That is consol¬
ing,” I remarked ;

*“ but cannot we ex¬
pect something from
our professional
players ? ”

“Well,” was Mr.

MacLaren’s rejoin¬
der, “we are certainly
getting more profes¬
sionals every year.

My idea is that the
amateurs are steadily
decreasing in num¬
bers, while the pro¬
fessionals are becom¬
ing much finer players,
cult to say whether
bowling or in batting.

“ It is more like an all-round improvement,
but I will say this, there are more pro¬
fessionals capable of getting a hundred runs
against the best bowling than was formerly
the case.

“ Certainly; the professional bowlers are
far in advance of the amateurs. Why? I
suppose it must be that they take more
trouble over it. A large number know that
their livelihood depends upon their ability to
get wickets, so they try their hardest to reach
the highest standard of excellence. That
is how I judge matters, my opinion being
formed from the men I play against.

“ Bowlers are of two classes ; head bowlers,

heads; and
5 best ? The

MR. MACLAREN, AGED 19.

From a Photo, by E. Hau'kins ds Co., Brighton.

Yes, it is very diffi-
they are better in

men who bowl with their
mechanical bowlers. Which i
former, without a doubt.

“ This is where the Australians are so
much ahead of us in their own country.
Their wickets are dry and hard, and it is
useless for a man to keep on bowling dead
on the wicket. He must perforce use his
judgment, and as a
natural consequence
the bowler at Sydney,
or Adelaide, or any
other of the Austra¬
lian grounds, is
obliged to try experi¬
ments in the attempt
to secure a wicket.
They try far more of
these experiments
and dodges than our
bowlers here—they
must do so in order
to justify their repu¬
tation.

“ When a batsman
goes in, the bowler
is continually trying
some device in order
to get him out, or to
tempt him in some
fashion. This style
of play is strange to
a new-comer, and he
falls into the trap laid
for him. Then he
wonders why he
could not have seen
what was likely to
happen. But a new
man possesses very
little chance of be¬
coming a success upon Australian wickets : he
has too much to learn to be able to crowd all
his experience into the beginning of one tour.

“ English bowlers are also at a considerable
disadvantage upon an Australian wicket. The
condition of the ground does not assist them,
and then there is the difference in the game
to be considered. The English batsman
plays in a free and dashing style; the Aus¬
tralian will not be tempted. He knows the
game will be played to a finish, he need not
hurry himself; so he is cautious in every
stroke he plays. Visiting bowlers would be
far more successful were the home batsmen
to play the game to which they had been
accustomed, but they won't.

“ The conditions of bowling are altogether
different in the two countries, and a strange

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

5*3

team will discover the change in either. Here
in England the climatic conditions, the wet
weather, frequently assists the bowlers to a no
uncertain extent. They are enabled to get
far more work upon the ball—McKibbin
discovered that, when he was last here, he
broke back far too much. It is a dangerous
thing to prophesy about Australian bowlers,
I am aware, but I fully expect them to show
their real form.

“Their best performer with the ball?
Hugh Trumble, without a doubt. He knows
our wickets well; he is remarkably good
upon his own wickets, and he uses his
judgment to the best advantage. Upon a
wicket that suits him he is practically un¬
playable, while he is
a man who can be
always relied upon.

MacLeod, again, is
another man who
may be a very good
bowler for them,
while his perform¬
ances with the • bat
are well-known
features in his play.”

It was evident Mr.

MacLaren possessed
a high opinion of the
calibre of our visitors.

No doubt he recol¬
lected the last of the
English tours. To
test him, however, I
brought the conver¬
sation round to the
subject of Australian
cricket, and asked
him what he thought
of the all-round con-
ditions at the
Antipodes.

“ We were beaten, fairly and squarely,” he
admitted ; “ but after all, we had a far more
formidable task than that faced by any of the
earlier elevens. On the former occasions
cricket had not secured such a hold upon the
Australian public. They had not been
educated up to it—the game was in a transi¬
tory stage, so to speak.

“Now the case is vastly different. Cricket
has been improved all round in Australia,
while, as I have said before, a new man must
almost entirely alter his style of play if he
wishes to be a success. And some men can¬
not do that, consequently they fail.

“ Even when he does make this alteration,
it takes a very long time before he can feel

Vol. xvii.—65.

at all at home under the different conditions.
It is always the same, and it by no means
follows that because a man is a great player
here in England he will prove an equal success
in Australia.

“ Far from it. First-class batsmen might
prove harmless; it would take time to con¬
form to the new order of things, and it is
only natural that a player should be a greater
success upon a second visit than during his
first. The Australian bowling was a great
factor in their success against us in the test
matches. You may recollect only three
centuries were scored against them, yet there
are men here in England, not in the front
rank, who I feel confident would get any
amount of runs off
their bowlers.

“ But it does not
follow that, because
the Australians have
scored hundred after
hundred upon their
own wickets, they
will be equally suc¬
cessful here. They,
under altered condi¬
tions, last time they
were here, were dis¬
missed cheaply on
occasions, and I
should like to see
them get thirty runs
apiece, instead of the
centuries, should the
pitch prove suitable
for our bowlers.

“Australian cricket,
taking it right
through, is not on
a par with county
cricket here, but it
is good enough, and
they will be a very great side this year. If they
get fair luck, we shall need to be at our best
to beat them ; but should they get soft wickets,
they may not be able to play upon them.

“ In speaking of Australian cricket at home,
it must not be forgotten that four years ago
they were a very young eleven, and almost
inexperienced. That is quite different now.
'There is twice the number of players, and they
have gained a greater knowledge of the game,
and how to play it to the best advantage.

“ Up-country cricket during the tour of an
English eleven is not looked upon in a
serious light at all, I can assure you. These
matches are simply considered in the nature
of a picnic. 'The names of the players are

MR. MACLAREN, AGE 25.

From a Photo, by E. Hawkins & Co., Brighton.

5i4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

placed in a hat, and every man determines
upon having a day out.

“ Still, there is this to be said of the matches
we played in the country during our last tour
in Australia: the matting wickets put many
of our batsmen right off their game. They
had, perhaps, almost recovered from the
effects of the long voyage. They would
practise upon turf and then go upon matting.
That would upset
their form at once,
and entirely.

. “ It is a fearful
drawback to any
visiting team, this
playing first on turf
and then on mat¬
ting. If I have
anything to say
about the arrange¬
ments of another
team and its tour
in Australia, I shall
most strongly dep¬
recate the custom
of playing under
these conditions.

We should never
play upon matting
at all.

“ Upon the aver¬
age, during our
last tour, we played
three of these
matches in a fort¬
night. We found
the ball came in
at a lightning pace,
and regulated our
style accordingly.

“ Then we would
play another match
upon the turf. That
is fast enough, but
not nearly so fast
as matting. The
Australians may
smile when they
read this, but I am
absolutely certain
several of our batsmen’s failures were caused
by the exchange of surface. Yes, I hope
when England plays Australia again, on
their own ground, it will be stipulated that
turf wickets must be provided for all the
fixtures entered upon, both test matches and
up-country contests.

“ These matches, played far away from the
usual grounds, of course do a great deal of

good from a cricket point of view ; that is
to say, locally. But our batsmen did not
attempt to do their best. Many of them
got out as soon as they could. When they
had made thirty or forty runs they would
become reckless, simply because they did
not like, playing against odds, to make too
big a score. The curious thing, though, is
that we met many good bowlers in these
matches. That and
the wicket-keeping
were their strongest
points. There were
one or two of these
up-country bowlers
whom I should like
to see playing for
Lancashire. Their
batting, on the
other hand, was
not of a very high-
class order. But
these matches were
very enjoyable,
after all.”

After this I was
somewhat chary in
suggesting “ spec¬
tators ” as a subject
for discussion, but
Mr. MacLaren
plunged into the
matter at once.

“ I regret to say
the spectators be¬
haved very badly
on occasions,” he
admitted. “ There
was a great deal
too much of the
‘barracking’
humour about
then, especially
at Sydney, on the
occasion of our last
test match there.
At Melbourne,
however, the crowd
behaved much
fairer to us. There
is a great difference between an Australian
and an English crowd. The former are not
nearly so generous : they do not like to see
you winning. As long as they are on top
they are satisfied; but if there is a prospect
of their being beaten, then they commence
to ‘ boo ’ and yell at the visiting players.

“ There are too many critics in Australia,
and, as is generally the case, those who know

R 1 R. MACLAREN “BATTING.”
brom a Photo, by E. Haiokins <£ Co., Brighton.

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

5*5

least have the most to say. As regards the
umpiring while we were there I have nothing
at all to complain of. It was perfectly fair.”

“But what about the number of players
taken out ? ” I hazarded. “ There was some¬
thing said about too small a reserve. Was
that the case ? ”

“ No, certainly not,” was Mr. MacLaren’s
rejoinder; “ when you are forming a cricket
team to tour abroad you cannot take more
than thirteen. When you play your first
match upon Australian soil, let us suppose the
side makes a total of 400 or 500 runs. That
is not at all improbable, seeing the scoring
that has occurred during the progress of the
recent inter-Colonial fixtures. Every man
of the side makes from 55 to 56 runs apiece.

“ Who are you to leave out ? Why, you
cannot take a batsman out of the team who
can score to the extent I have mentioned,
and the result is that you have about four
men looking on, match after match, with but
a very slight chance of their being given a trial.

“ Very frequently a man may be in Aus¬
tralia, under these circumstances, for four or
five weeks before he is asked to get into his
flannels. Look at Mr. Philipson when he
was taken out as a reserve wicket-keeper.
How frequently were his services required ?
No, a side comprising thirteen members is
quite large enough for all practical purposes.

“ It was not the paucity of our numbers
that upset us in Australia. It was the heat.
During the day we would be beneath a
broiling sun; then at
night, up would come
the hot wind, and we
could not sleep. That
in itself was enough
to put a man off his
form. However, the
Australians will be at
a disadvantage should
they experience any
cold weather during
their visit here, so we
must not complain
upon that score.”

The winter payment
of professionals proved
a good subject, and
Mr. MacLaren spoke
up decidedly in the
matter of rendering
the closing days of a
good old servant a
little easier than is
sometimes the case.

“ I think,” he sug¬

gested, “ that winter payments to professional
cricketers should be made the general rule.
But in this connection there should be a
universal law: one man should be paid as
well as another. It is hard that one man
should be paid ^2 or ^1 a week and that
another should get nothing.

“ Professionals are underpaid at the best
of times, for it must not be forgotten they
soon get old. After they have reached the
age of thirty-five, they are not much good for
county work. The great cricketers, the idols
of the public, are all right—they may depend
upon a rousing benefit; but what of the
smaller men ?

“They have wives and families, and they
are put to the same expense as a more
successful member of the team. Yet what
have they to look forward to in their old age ?
A few secure posts as coaches at the public
schools, but they are exceptionally fortunate.
Time after time I have seen professionals
upon the cricket-field looking as miserable as
possible. Wondering where their next
sovereign was coming from, very likely. Is
this fair ? Can a man show his real form when
he is over-burdened with responsibilities ?

“Certainly not. The professional player
is a sober, honest, hardworking servant of
the club or county, and he deserves better
all-round treatment. The big man can go to
the secretary or treasurer and say, ‘ Oh, if
you won’t pay me at a certain rate, another
county will,’ and he gains his point. What
chance has a little man
of making a similar
bargain? None at all.

“ A fast bowler ?
No ; why should it
make a greater differ¬
ence to him ? The
public must not forget
that he does not gener¬
ally last as long as a
medium pace or slow
bowler. That fact ex¬
plains more than one
failure on previous
form.”

Then Mr. Mac¬
Laren cried “ enough,”
and refused to be
drawn farther. But I
may add he is equally at
home with his gun as
with his cricket bat, and
that if he has a weak¬
ness it runs in the direc¬
tion of greyhounds.

MRS. MACI.AREN.

From a Photo, by Vandyck, Melbourne.

Hilda Wade.

By Grant Allen.

III.—THE EPISODE OF THE WIFE WHO DID HER DUTY.

O make you understand my
next yarn, I must go back to
the date of my introduction to
Hilda.

“It is witchcraft! ” I said
the first time I saw her, at Le
Geyt’s luncheon-party.

She smiled a smile which was bewitching,
indeed, but by no means witchlike. A frank
open smile, with just a touch of natural
feminine triumph in it. “ No, not witchcraft,”
she answered, helping herself with her dainty
fingers to a burnt almond from the Venetian
glass dish. “ Not witchcraft. Memory:
aided perhaps by some native quickness of
perception. Though I say it myself, I never
met anyone, I think, whose memory goes
quite as far as mine does.”

“You don’t mean quite as far back” I
cried, jesting : for she looked about twenty-
four, and had cheeks like a ripe nectarine,
just as pink and just as softly downy.

She smiled again, showing a row of
semi-transparent teeth, with a gleam in
the depths of them. She was certainly
most attractive. She had that indefin¬
able, incommunicable, unanalyzable personal
quality which we
know as charm.

“No, not as far
back” she repeated.

“Though, indeed, I
often seem to re¬
member things that
happened before I
was born (like
Queen Elizabeth’s
visit to Kenilworth):

I recollect so vividly
all that I have heard
or read about them.

But as far in extent ,

I mean. I never
let anything drop
out of my memory.

As this case shows
you, I can recall
even quite unim¬
portant and casual
bits of knowledge,
when any chance
clue happens to
bring them back to
me.”

She had certainly astonished me. The
occasion for my astonishment was the fact
that when I handed her my card, “ Dr.
Hubert Ford Cumberledge, St. Nathaniel’s
Hospital,” she had glanced at it for a second
and exclaimed, without sensible pause or
break, “ Oh, then, of course, you’re half
Welsh, as I am.”

The instantaneousness and apparent incon¬
secutiveness of her inference took me aback.
“Well, m’yes: I am half Welsh,” I replied.
“ My mother came from Carnarvonshire.
But why then and of course ? I fail to perceive
your train of reasoning.”

She laughed a sunny little laugh, like one
well accustomed to receive such inquiries.
“ Fancy asking a woman to give you ‘ the train
of reasoning ’ for her intuitions ! ” she cried,
merrily. “That shows, Dr. Cumberledge,
that you are a mere man—a man of science,
perhaps, but not a psychologist. It also
suggests that you are a confirmed bachelor.
A married man accepts intuitions, without
expecting them to be based on reasoning.
. . . . Well, just this once, I will stretch a
point to enlighten you. If I recollect right,
your mother died about three years ago ? ”

HILDA WADE.

5 T 7

“ You are quite correct. Then you knew
my mother ? ”

44 Oh, dear me, no. I never even met her.
Why then ? ” Her look was mischievous.
“ But, unless I mistake, I think she came
from Hendre Coed, near Bangor.”

“Wales is a village !” I exclaimed, catching
my breath. “ Every Welsh person seems to
know all about every other.”

My new acquaintance smiled again. When
she smiled she was irresistible : a laughing
face protruding from a cloud of diaphanous
drapery. “Now, shall I tell you how I came
to know that?” she asked, poising a glace
cherry on her dessert fork in front of her.
“Shall I explain my. trick, like the con¬
jurers ? ”

“ Conjurers never explain anything,” I
answered. “They say, 4 So, you see, that's
how it’s done ! ’—with a swift whisk of the
hand— and leave you as much in the dark
as ever. Don’t explain like the conjurers,
but tell me how you guessed it.”

She shut her eyes and seemed to turn her
glance inward. “About three years ago,”
she began slowly, like one who reconstructs
with an effort a half-forgotten scene, “ I saw
a notice in the Times —Births, Deaths, and
Marriages— c On the 27th of October’—was
it the 27th?” The keen brown eyes opened
again for a second and flashed inquiry into
mine.

“ Quite right,” I answered, nodding.

“I thought so. ‘On the 27th of October,
at Brynmor, Bournemouth, Emily Olwen
Josephine, widow of the late Thomas Cum-
berledge, sometime colonel of the 7 th Bengal
Regiment of Foot, and daughter of Iolo
Gwyn Ford, Esq., J.P., of Hendre Coed,
near Bangor.’ Am I correct?” She lifted
her dark eyelashes once more and flooded me.

“ You are quite correct,” I answered, sur¬
prised. “And that is really all that you
knew of my mother? ”

“ Absolutely all. The moment 1 saw your
card, I thought to myself, in a breath, 4 Ford,
Cumberledge : what do I know of those two
names ? I have some link between them.
Ah, yes: found! Mrs. Cumberledge, wife
of Colonel Thomas Cumberledge, of the 7th
Bengals, was a Miss Ford, daughter of a Mr.
Ford, of Bangor.’ That came to me like a
lightning-gleam. Then I said to myself
again, 4 Dr. Hubert Ford Cumberledge must
be their son.’ So there you see you have
4 the train of reasoning.’ Women can reason
—sometimes. I had to think twice, though,
before I could recall the exact words of the
Limes notice.”

“ And can you do the same with every¬
one ? ”

“ Everyone ! Oh, come, now : that is
expecting too much ! I have not read,
marked, learned, and inwardly digested
everyone’s family announcements. I don’t
pretend to be the Peerage, the Clergy List,
and the London Directory rolled into one.
I remembered your family all the more
vividly, no doubt, because of the pretty and
unusual old Welsh names, 4 Olwen ’ and
4 Iolo Gwyn Ford,’ which fixed themselves
on my memory by their mere beauty.
Everything about Wales always attracts me :
my Welsh side is uppermost. But I have
hundreds — oh, thousands of such facts
stored and pigeon-holed in my memory : if
anybody else cares to try me,” she glanced
round the table, 44 perhaps we may be able
to test my power that way.”

Two or three of the company accepted her
challenge, giving the full names of their
sisters or brothers ; and, in three cases out of
five, my witch was able to supply either the
notice of their marriage or some other like
published circumstance. In the instance of
Charlie Vere, it is true, she went wrong, just
at first, though only in a single small par¬
ticular : it was not Charlie himself who was
gazetted to a sub-lieutenancy in the Warwick¬
shire Regiment, but his brother Walter. How-
ever, the moment she was told of this slip,
she corrected herself at once, and added, like
lightning, 44 Ah, yes: how stupid of me! I
have mixed up the names. Charles Cassilis
Vere got an appointment on the same day in
the Rhodesian Mounted Police, didn’t he ? ”
Which was in point of fact quite accurate.

But I am forgetting that all this time I
have not even now introduced my witch
to you.

Hilda Wade, when I first saw her, was
one of the prettiest, cheeriest, and most
graceful girls I have ever met—a dusky
blonde, brown-eyed, brown-haired, with a
creamy, waxen whiteness of skin that was
yet warm and peach-do wmy. And I wish to
insist from the outset upon the plain fact
that there was nothing uncanny about her.
In spite of her singular faculty of inright,
which sometimes seemed to illogical people
almost weird or eerie, she was in the main
a bright, well-educated, sensible, winsome,
lawn-tennis-playing English girl. Her viva¬
cious spirits rose superior to her surround¬
ings, which were often sad enough. But she
was above all things wholesome, unaffected,
and sparkling- a gleam of sunshine. She
laid no claim to supernatural powers: she

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

5i8

held no dealings with familiar spirits: she
was simply a girl of strong personal charm,
endowed with an astounding memory and
a rare measure of feminine intuition. Her
memory, she told me, she shared with her
father and all her father’s family : they were
famous for their prodigious faculty in that
respect. Her impulsive temperament and
quick instincts on the other hand descended
to her, she thought, from her mother and
her Welsh ancestry.

Externally, she seemed thus at first sight
little more than the ordinary pretty, light¬
hearted English girl, with a taste for field
sports (especially riding), and a native love
of the country. But at times, one caught in
the brightened colour of her lustrous brown
eyes certain curious undercurrents of depth,
of reserve, and of a questioning wistfulness
which made you suspect the presence of
profounder elements in her nature. From
the earliest moment of our acquaintance,
indeed, I can say with truth that Hilda Wade
interested me immensely. I felt drawn.
Her face had that strange quality of com¬
pelling attention for which we have as yet no
English name, but which everybody recog¬
nises. You could not ignore her. She
stood out. She was the sort of girl one was
constrained to notice.

It was Le Geyt’s first luncheon-party since
his second marriage. Big-bearded, genial,
he beamed round on us jubilant. He was
proud of his wife, and proud of his recent
Q.C.-ship. The new Mrs. Le Geyt sat at
the head of the table, handsome, capable,
self-possessed, a vivid, vigorous woman and -a
model hostess. Though still quite young,
she was large and commanding. Everybody
was impressed by her. “ Such a good mother
to those poor motherless children ! ” all the
ladies declared, in a chorus of applause.
And, indeed, she had the face of a splendid
manager.

I said as much in an undertone over the
ices to Miss Wade, who sat beside me—
though I ought not to have discussed them
at their own table. “ Hugo Le Geyt seems
to have made an excellent choice,” 1
murmured. “ Maisie and Ettie will be
lucky indeed to be taken care of by such
a competent step-mother. Don’t you think
so?”

My witch glanced up at her hostess with a
piercing dart of the keen brown eyes, held
her wine-glass half raised, and then electrified
me by uttering, in the same low voice, audible
to me alone, but quite clearly and unhesitat¬
ingly, these astounding words :—

“I think, before twelve months are out,
Mr. Le Geyt will have murdered her I

For a minute I could not answer, so
startling was the effect of this confident
prediction. One does not expect to be
told such things at lunch, over the port
and peaches, about one’s dearest friends,
beside their own mahogany. And the
assured air of unfaltering conviction with
which Hilda Wade said it to a complete
stranger took my breath away. Why did she
think so at all ? And if she thought so, why
choose me as the recipient of her singular
confidences ?

I gasped and wondered.

“ What makes you fancy anything so
unlikely?” I asked aside at last, behind
the Babel of voices. “ You quite alarm me.”

She rolled a mouthful of apricot ice reflec¬
tively on her tongue, and then murmured, in
a similar aside, “ Don’t ask me now. Some
other time will do. But, I mean what I say.
Believe me, I do not speak at random/’

She was quite right, of course. To
continue would have been equally rude and
foolish. I had perforce to bottle up my
curiosity for the moment, and wait till my
Sibyl was in the mood for interpreting.

After lunch we adjourned to the drawing¬
room. Almost at once, Hilda Wade flitted
up with her brisk step to the corner where I
was sitting. “Oh, Dr. Cumberledge,” she
began, as if nothing odd had occurred before,
“ I was so glad to meet you and have a
chance of talking to you, because I do so
want to get a nurse’s place at St. Nathaniel’s.”

“ A nurse’s place! ” I exclaimed, a little
surprised, surveying her dress of palest and
softest Indian muslin, for she looked to me
far too much of a butterfly for such serious
work. “ Do you really mean it, or are you
one of the ten thousand modern young ladies
who are in quest of a Mission, without
understanding that Missions are unpleasant ?
Nursing, I can tell you, is not all crimped
cap and becoming uniform.”

“ I know that,” she answered, growing
grave. “ I ought to know it. I am a nurse
already at St. George’s Hospital.”

“You a nurse ! And at St. George’s ! Yet
you want to change to Nathaniel’s ? Why ?
St. George’s is in a much nicer part of
London, and the patients there come on an
average from a much better class than ours
in Smithfield.”

“ I know that too : but .... Sebastian
is at St. Nathaniel’s—and I want to be near
Sebastian.”

HILDA WADE.

5i9

r( I AM A NURSE ALREADY.”

“ Professor Sebastian ! ” I cried, my face
lighting up with a gleam of enthusiasm at
our great teacher’s name. “ Ah, if it is to
be under Sebastian that you desire, I can see
you mean business. I know now you are in
earnest.”

“ In earnest ? ” she echoed, that strange
deeper shade coming over her face as she
spoke, while her tone altered. “Yes, I
think I am in earnest! It is my object in
life to be near Sebastian—to watch him and
observe him. I mean to succeed. . . . But,
I have given you my confidence, perhaps too
hastily, and I must implore you not to
mention my wish to him.”

“You may trust me implicitly,” I answered.

“Oh, yes, I saw that,” she put in, with a
quick gesture. “ Of course, I saw by your
face you were a man of honour a man one
could trust—or I would not have spoken to
you. But—you promise me ? ”

“ I promise you,” I replied, naturally
flattered. She was delicately pretty, and her
quaint, oracular air, so incongruous with the
dainty face and the fluffy brown hair, piqued
me not a little. That special mysterious
commodity of charm seemed to pervade all
she did and said. So I added, “ And I will
mention to Sebastian that you wish for a
nurse’s place at Nathaniel’s. As you have
had experience, and can be recommended, I
suppose, by Le Geyt’s sister,” with whom she
had come, “no doubt you can secure an
early vacancy.”

“Thanks so much,” she answered, with
that delicious smile : it had an infantile
simplicity about it which contrasted most
piquantly with her prophetic manner.

“Only,” I went on, assum¬
ing a confidential tone, “ you
really must tell me why you
said that just now about
Hugo Le Geyt. Recollect,
your Delphian utterances
have gravely astonished and
disquieted me. Hugo is one
of my oldest and dearest
friends ; and I want to know
why you have formed this
sudden bad opinion of him.”

“Not of him , but of her?
she answered, to my sur¬
prise, taking a small Nor¬
wegian dagger from the
what-not and playing with
it to distract attention.

“ Come, come, now,” I
cried, drawing back. “You
are trying to mystify me.
This is deliberate seer-mongery. You are
presuming on your powers. But I am not
the sort of man to be caught by horoscopes.
I decline to believe it.”

She turned on me with a meaning glance.
Those truthful eyes fixed me. “ I am going
from here straight to my hospital,” she mur¬
mured, with a quiet air of knowledge—talk¬
ing, I mean to say, like one who really
knows. “ This room is not the place to
discuss this matter, is it ? If you will walk
back to St. George’s with me, I think I can
make you see and feel that I am speaking,
not at haphazard, but from observation and
experience.”

Her confidence roused my most vivid
curiosity. When she left, I left with her.
The Le Geyts lived in one of those new
streets of large houses on Campden Hill, so
that our way eastward lay naturally through
Kensington Gardens. It was a sunny June
day, when light pierced even through the
smoke of London, and the shrubberies
breathed the breath of white lilacs. “Now,
what did you mean by that enigmatical
saying?” I asked my new Cassandra, as
we strolled down the scent-laden path.
“Woman’s intuition is all very well in its
way: but a mere man may be excused if he
asks for evidence.”

She stopped short as I spoke and gazed
full into my eyes. Her hand fingered her
parasol handle. “ I meant what I said,” she
answered, with emphasis. “ Within one year,
Mr. Le Geyt will have murdered his wife.
You may take my word for it.”

“ Le Geyt! ” I cried. “ Never ! I know
the man so well! A big, good-natured,

5 2 °

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

kindly schoolboy ! He is the gentlest and
best of mortals. Le Geyt a murderer!
Im—possible ! ”

Her eyes were far away. “ Has it never
occurred to you,” she asked, slowly, with her
pythoness air, “that there are murders and
murders ? — murders which depend in the
main upon the murderer .... and also
murders which depend in the main upon
the victim ? ”

“ The victim ? How do you mean ? ”

“ Well, there are brutal men who commit
murder out of sheer brutality—the ruffians
of the slums ; and there are sordid men
who commit murder for sordid money—the
insurers who want to forestall their policies,
the poisoners who want to inherit property :
but have you ever realized that there are
also murderers who become so by accident,
through their victims’ idiosyncrasy ? I thought
all the time while I was watching Mrs.
Le Geyt, ‘ That woman is of the sort pre¬
destined to be murdered.’ .... And when
you asked me, I told you so. I may have
been imprudent: still, I saw it, and 1 said it.”

“ But this is second sight! ” I cried,
drawing away. “ Do you pretend to pre¬
vision ? ”

“No, not second sight: nothing uncanny,
nothing supernatural. But prevision, yes :
prevision based, not on omens or auguries,
but on solid fact—on what I have seen and
noticed.”

“ Explain yourself, oh prophetess ! ”

She let the point of her parasol make a
curved trail on the gravel, and followed its
serpentine wavings with her eyes. “You
know our house-surgeon ? ” she asked at last,
looking up of a sudden.

“What, Travers? Oh, intimately.”

“ Then come to my ward and see. After
you have seen you will perhaps believe me.”

Nothing that I could say would get any
further explanation out of her just then.
“ You would laugh at me if I told you,” she
persisted : “ you won’t laugh when you have
seen it.”

We walked on in silence as far as Hyde
Park Corner. There my Sphinx tripped
lightly up the steps of St. George’s Hospital.
“ Get Mr. Travers’s leave,” she said, with a
nod and a bright smile, “ to visit Nurse
Wade’s ward. Then come up to me there in
five minutes.”

I explained to my friend the house-surgeon
that I wished to see certain cases in the
accident ward of which I had heard ; he
smiled a restrained smile — “Nurse Wade,
no doubt! ” but, of course, gave me per¬

mission to go up and look at them. “ Stop
a minute,” he added, “and I’ll come with
you.” When we got there, my witch had
already changed her dress, and was waiting
for us demurely in the neat dove-coloured
gown and smooth Avhite apron of the hospital
nurses. She looked even prettier and more
meaningful so than in her ethereal outside
summer-cloud muslin.

“Come over to this bed,” she said at once
to Travers and myself, without the least air
of mystery. “ I will show you what I mean
by it.”

“ Nurse Wade has remarkable insight,”
Travers whispered to me as we went.

“ I can believe it,” I answered.

“ Look at this woman,” she went on, aside,
in a low voice—“ no, not the first bed : the
one beyond it: number 60. I don’t want
the patient to know you are watching her.
Do you observe anything odd about her
appearance ? ”

“ She is somewhat the same type,” I began,
“as Mrs.-”

Before I could get out the words “Le
Geyt,” her warning eye and puckering fore¬
head had stopped me. “As the lady we
were discussing,” she interposed, with a quiet
wave of one hand. “Yes, in some points
very much so. You notice in particular her
scanty hair—so thin and poor—though she is
young and good-looking? ”

“ It is certainly rather a feeble crop for a
woman of her age,” I admitted. “ And pale
at that, and washy.”

“ Precisely. It’s done up behind about as
big as a nutmeg .... Now, observe the
contour of her back as she sits up there : it
is curiously curved, isn’t it ? ”

“ Very,” I replied. “ Not exactly a stoop,
nor yet quite a hunch, but certainly an odd
spinal configuration.”

“ Like our friend’s, once more ? ”

“ Like our friend’s, exactly ! ”

Hilda Wade looked away, lest she should
attract the patient’s attention. “ Well, that
woman was brought in here, half-dead,
assaulted by her husband,” she went on, with
a note of unobtrusive demonstration.

“ We get a great many such cases,” Travers
put in, with true medical unconcern, “ very
interesting cases: and Nurse Wade has
pointed out to me the singular fact that in
almost all instances the patients resemble
one another physically.”

“ Incredible ! ” I cried. “ I can under¬
stand that there might well be a type of men
who assault their wives, but not, surely, a
type of women who get assaulted.”

HILDA WADE.

5 21

“ That is because you know less about it
than Nurse Wade,” Travers answered, with
an annoying smile of superior knowledge.

Our instructress moved on to another
bed, laying one gentle hand as she passed on
a patient’s forehead. The patient glanced
gratitude. “ That one again,” she said once
more, half-indicating a cot at a little distance :
“Number 74. She has much the same thin
hair—sparse, weak, and colourless. She has
much the same curved back, and much the
same aggressive, self-assertive features. Looks
capable, doesn’t she ? A born housewife !
. . . . Well, she too was knocked down
and kicked half-dead the other night by her
husband.”

“ It is certainly odd,” I answered, “ how
very much they both recall-”

“ Our friend at lunch ! Yes, extraordinary.
See here ” : she pulled out a pencil and drew
the quick outline of a face in her note-book.

“ That is what is central and essential to the
type. They have this sort of profile. Women
with faces like that alivays get assaulted.”

Travers glanced over her shoulder. 44 Quite
true,” he assented, with his bourgeois nod.
“Nurse Wade in her time has shown me
dozens of them. Round dozens : bakers’
dozens ! They all belong to that species.
In fact, when a woman of this type is brought
in to us wounded now, I ask at once,
c Husband ? ’ and the invariable answer
comes pat: 4 Well, yes, sir; we had some

Vol. xvii.—66.

words together.’ The effect of words, my
dear fellow, is something truly surprising.”.

44 They can pierce like a dagger,” I mused.

44 And leave an open wound behind that
requires dressing,” Travers added, unsuspect¬
ing. Practical man, Travers !

44 But why do they get assaulted—the
women of this type ? ” I asked, still be¬
wildered.

44 Number 87 has her mother just come to
see her,” my sorceress interposed. “She's
an assault case; brought in last night: badly
kicked and bruised about the head and
shoulders. Speak to the mother. She’ll
explain it all to you.”

Travers and I moved over to the cot
her hand scarcely indicated. 44 Well, your
daughter looks pretty comfortable this after¬
noon, in spite of the little fuss,” Travers
began, tentatively.

44 Yus, she’s a bit tidy, thanky,” the mother
answered, smoothing her soiled black
gown, grown green with long service.
44 She’ll git on naow, please Gord.
But Joe most did for ’er.”

44 How did it all happen?” Travers
asked, in a jaunty tone, to draw her
out.

44 Well, it was like this, sir, yer
see. My daughter, she’s a lidy as
keeps ’erself to ’erself, as the sayin’
is, an’ ’olds ’er ’ead up. She keeps
up a proper pride, an’ minds ’er
’ouse an’ ’er little ’uns. She ain’t
no gadabaht. But she ’ave a tongue,
she ’ave ”: the mother lowered her
voice cautiously lest the 44 lidy ”
should hear. 44 1 don’t deny it that
she ’ave a tongue, at times, through
myself ’avin’ suffered from it. And
when she do go on, Lord bless
you, why, there ain’t no stoppin’
of ’er.”

44 Oh, she has a tongue, has she ? ”
Travers replied, surveying the 44 case”
critically. 44 Well, you know, she
looks like it.”

44 So she do, sir; so she do. An’Joe,
’e’s a man as wouldn’t ’urt a biby—not when
’e’s sober, Joe wouldn’t. But ’e’d bin aht,
that’s where it is; an’ ’e cum ’ome lite, a bit
fresh, through ’avin’ bin at the friendly lead :
an’ my daughter, yer see, she up an’ give it
to ’im. My word, she did give it to ’im !
An’ Joe, ’e’s a peaceable man when ’e ain’t
a bit fresh : ’e’s more like a friend to ’er
than an ’usband, Joe is; but ’e lost ’is
temper that, time, as yer may say, by reason
o’ bein’ fresh, an’ ’e knocked ’er abaht a

SHE DREW TIIE QUICK OUTLINE OF A FACE IN HER NOTE-BOOK."

522

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

SHE DID GIVE IT TO ’iM.”

little, an’ knocked ’er teeth aht. So we
brought ’er to the orspital.”

The injured woman raised herself up in
bed with a vindictive scowl, displaying as
she did so the same whale-like curved back
as in the other “ cases.” “ But we’ve sent
’im to the lock-up,” she continued : the
scowl giving way fast to a radiant joy of vic¬
tory as she contemplated her triumph : 44 an’
wot’s more, I ’ad the last word of ’im. An’
’e’ll git six month for this, the neighbours
says; an’ when he comes aht again, my
Gord, won’t ’e ketch it ! ”

“ You look capable of punishing him for
it,” I answered, and as I spoke, I shuddered:
for I saw her expression was precisely the
expression Mrs. Le Geyt’s face had worn for
a passing second when her husband accident¬
ally trod on her dress as we left the dining¬
room.

My witch moved away. We followed.
“Well, what do you say to it now?” she
asked, gliding among the beds with noiseless
feet and ministering fingers.

“ Say to it ? ” I answered. “ That it is
wonderful, wonderful. You have quite con¬
vinced me.”

“You would think so,” Travers put in, “if
you had been in this ward as often as I have,
and observed their faces. It’s a dead
certainty. Sooner or later, that type of
woman is cock-sure to be assaulted.”

“In a certain rank of life, perhaps,” I
answered, still loth to believe it ; “ but not

surely in ours.
Gentlemen do not
knock down their
wives and kick
their teeth out.”

My Sibyl smiled.

“ No : there, class
tells,” she admitted.

“ They take longer
about it, and suffer
more provocation.
They curb their
tempers. But in
the end, one day,
they are goaded
beyond endurance;
and then — a con¬
venient knife — a
rusty old sword—
a pair of scissors
—anything that
comes handy, like
that dagger this
morning. One wild
blow—half unpre¬
meditated—and .... the thing is done !
Twelve good men and true will find it wilful
murder.”

I felt really perturbed. “But can we do
nothing,” I cried, “ to warn poor Hugo ? ”

“ Nothing, I fear,” she answered. “ After
all, character must work itself out in its inter¬
actions with character. He has married that
woman, and he must take the consequences.
Does not each of us in life suffer perforce
the Nemesis of his own temperament ? ”

“ Then is there not also a type of men
who assault their wives ? ”

“ That is the odd part of it—no. All
kinds, good and bad, quick and slow, can
be driven to it at last. The quick-tempered
stab or kick : the slow devise some deliberate
means of ridding themselves of their burden.”

“ But surely we might caution Le Geyt of
his danger ! ”

“ It is useless. He would not believe us.
We cannot be at his elbow to hold back his
hand when the bad moment comes. Nobody
will be there, as a matter of fact: for women
of this temperament—born naggers, in short,
since that’s what it comes to—when they are
also ladies, graceful and gracious as she is,
never nag at all before outsiders. To the
world, they are bland: everybody says,

4 What charming talkers ! ’ They are 4 angels
abroad, devils at home,’ as the proverb puts
it. Some night she will provoke him when
they are alone, till she has reached his utmost
limit of endurance—and then,” she drew one

HILDA

hand across her dovelike throat, “ it will be
all finished.”

“ You think so ? ”

“ I am sure of it. We human beings go
straight like sheep to our natural destiny.”

“ But—that is fatalism.”

“No, not fatalism: insight into tempera¬
ment. Fatalists believe that your life is
arranged for you beforehand from without:
willy nilly, you must act so. I only believe
that in this jostling world your life is mostly
determined by your own character, in its
interaction with the characters of those who
surround you. Temperament works itself
out. It is your own acts and deeds that
make up Fate for you.”

For some months after this first meeting,
neither Hilda Wade nor I saw anything more
of the Le Geyts. They left town for Scotland
at the end of the season : and when all the
grouse had been duly slaughtered, and all
the salmon duly hooked, they went on to
Leicestershire for the opening of fox-hunting :
so it was not till after Christmas that they
returned to Campden Hill. Meanwhile, I
had spoken to Dr. Sebastian about Miss
Wade, and on my recommendation he had
found her a vacancy at our hospital. “A
most intelligent girl, Cumberledge,” he
remarked to me with a rare burst of approval
—for the Professor was always critical—after
she had been at work for some weeks at St.
Nathaniel's. “ I am glad you introduced
her here. A nurse with brains is such a
valuable accessory—unless of course she
takes to thinking . But Nurse Wade never
thinks: she is a useful instrument-—does
what she’s told, and carries out one’s orders
implicitly.”

“She knows enough to know when she
doesn’t know,” I answered. “ Which is
really the rarest kind of knowledge.”

“ Unrecorded among young doctors ! ” the
Professor retorted, with his sardonic smile.

“ They think they understand the human
body from top to toe, when in reality—well,
they might do the measles ! ”

Early in January, I was invited again to
lunch with the Le Geyts. Hilda Wade was
invited too. The moment we entered the
house, we were both of us aware that some
grim change had come over it. Le Geyt
met us in the hall, in his old genial style, it
is true, but still with a certain reserve, a
curious veiled timidity which we had not
known in him. Big and good-humoured as
he was, with kindly eyes beneath the shaggy
eyebrows, he seemed strangely subdued now :

WADE. 523

the boyish buoyancy had gone out of him.
He spoke rather lower than was his natural
key, and welcomed us warmly though less
effusively than of old. An irreproachable
housemaid in a spotless cap ushered us into
the transfigured drawing-room. Mrs. Le
Geyt, in a pretty cloth dress, neatly tailor-
made, rose to meet us, beaming the vapid
smile of the perfect hostess — that im¬
partial smile which falls, like the rain from
Heaven, on good and bad indifferently.
“ So charmed to see you again, Dr. Cumber-
ledge ! ” she bubbled out, with a cheerful air
—she was. always cheerful, mechanically
cheerful, from a sense of duty. “ It is such
a pleasure to meet dear Hugo’s old friends.
And Miss Wade, too ; how delightful! You
look so well, Miss Wade! Oh, you’re both
at St. Nathaniel’s now, aren’t you ? So you
can come together. What a privilege for you,
Dr. Cumberledge, to have such a clever
assistant — or, rather, fellow - worker. It
must be a great life, yours, Miss Wade :
such a sphere of usefulness! If we can
only feel we are doing good —that is the
main matter. For my own part, I like
to be mixed up with every good work
that’s going on in my neighbourhood: I’m
the soup-kitchen, you know, and I’m visitor
at the workhouse; and I’m the Dorcas
Society, and the Mutual Improvement Class,
and the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals
and to Children, and I’m sure I don’t know
how much else : so that, what with all that,
and what with dear Hugo and the darling
children ”—she glanced affectionately at
Maisie and Ettie, who sat bolt upright, very
mute and still, in their best and stiffest
frocks, on two stools in the corner—“ I can
hardly find time for my social duties.”

“Oh, dear Mrs. Le Geyt,” one of her
visitors said with effusion, from beneath a
nodding bonnet—she was the wife of a rural
dean from Staffordshire; u everybody is agreed
that your social duties are performed to a
marvel. They are the envy of Kensington.
We all of us wonder, indeed, how one
woman can find time for all of it!”

Our hostess looked pleased. “ Well, yes,”
she answered, gazing down at her fawn-
coloured dress with a half-suppressed smile
of self-satisfaction, “ I flatter myself I ca?i
get through about as much work in a day as
anybody ! ” Her eye wandered round her
rooms with a modest, air of placid self¬
approval which was almost comic. Every¬
thing in them was as well kept and as well
polished as good servants thoroughly, drilled
could make it. Not a stain or a speck any-

5 2 4

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE.

where. A miracle of neatness. Indeed,
when I carelessly drew the Norwegian dagger
from its scabbard, as we waited for lunch,
and found that it stuck in the sheath, I
almost started to discover that rust could
intrude into that orderly household.

“THE NORWEGIAN DAGGER.”

I recollected then how Hilda Wade had
pointed out to me during those six months
at St. Nathaniel’s that the women whose
husbands assaulted them were almost always
“ notable housewives,” as they say in America
—good souls who prided themselves not a
little on their skill in management. They
were capable, practical mothers of families,
with a boundless belief in themselves, a
sincere desire to do their duty, as far as they
understood it, and a habit of impressing
their virtues upon others which was quite
beyond all human endurance. Placidity was
their note : provoking placidity. I felt sure
it must have been of a woman of this type
that the famous phrase was first coined—
“ Elle a toutes les vertus—et elle est insup¬
portable.”

“ Clara, dear,” her husband said, “ shall
we go in to lunch ? ”

“You dear, stupid boy ! Are we not all
waiting for you to give your arm to Lady
Maitland?”

The lunch was perfect, and it was perfectly
served. The silver glowed: the linen was
marked with H. C. Le G. in a most artistic
monogram. I noticed that the table decora¬
tions were extremely pretty. Somebody com¬

plimented our hostess upon them. Mrs. Le
Geyt nodded and smiled — “/arranged them.
Dear Hugo, in his blundering way—the big
darling—forgot to get me the orchids I had
ordered. So I had to make shift with
what few things our own wee conservatory
afforded. Still, with a little taste and a little
ingenuity-” She surveyed her handi¬

craft with just pride, and left the rest to our
imaginations.

“Only you ought to explain, Clara-”

Le Geyt began, in a deprecatory tone.

“Now, you darling old bear, we won’t
harp on that twice-told tale again,” Clara
interrupted, with a knowing smile. “ Point
de 7 'ichauffcs! Let us leave one another’s
misdeeds and one another’s explanations for
their proper sphere — the family circle. The
orchids did not turn up, that is the point;
and I managed to make shift with the
plumbago and the geraniums. Maisie, my
sweet, not that pudding, if you please: too
rich for you, darling. I know your digestive
capacities better than you do. I have told
you fifty times it doesn’t agree with you. A
small slice of the other one ! ”

“ Yes, mamma,” Maisie answered, with a
cowed and cowering air. I felt sure she
would have murmured, “ Yes, mamma,” in
the self-same tone if the second Mrs. Le
Geyt had ordered her to hang herself.

“ I saw you out in the park, yesterday, on
your bicycle, Ettie,” Le Geyt’s sister, Mrs.
Mallet, put in. “ But do you know, dear,
I didn’t think your jacket was half warm
enough.”

“ Mamma doesn’t like me to wear a
warmer one,” the child answered, with a
visible shudder of recollection, “though I
should love to, Aunt Lina.”

“ My precious Ettie, what nonsense — for a
violent exercise like bicycling ! Where one
gets so hot ! So unbecomingly hot ! You’d
be simply stifled, darling.” I caught a darted
glance which accompanied the words and
which made Ettie recoil into the recesses of
her pudding.

“ But yesterday was so cold, Clara,” Mrs.
Mallet went on, actually venturing to oppose
the infallible authority. “ A nipping morning.
And such a flimsy coat! Might not the dear
child be allowed to judge for herself in a
matter purely of her own feelings ? ”

Mrs. Le Geyt, with just the shadow of a
shrug, was all sweet reasonableness. She
smiled more suavely than ever. “ Surely,
Lina,” she remonstrated, in her frankest and
most convincing tone, “/ must know best
what is good for dear Ettie, when I have been

HILDA WADE .

5 2 5

watching her daily for more than six months
past, and taking the greatest pains to under¬
stand both her constitution and her dis¬
position. She needs hardening, Ettie does.
Hardening. Don’t you agree with me,
Hugo?”

Le Geyt shuffled uneasily in his chair.
Big man as he was, with his great black beard
and manly bearing, I could see'he was afraid
to differ from her overtly. “ Well, -—m—
perhaps, Clara,” he began, peering from
under the shaggy eyebrows, “it would be
best for a delicate child like Ettie-”

Mrs. Le Geyt smiled a compassionate
smile. “Ah, I forgot,” she cooed sweetly.
“ Dear Hugo never can understand the up¬
bringing of children. It is a sense denied
him. We women know”—with a sage nod.
“ They were wild little savages when I took
them in hand first—weren’t you, Maisie ?
Do you remember, dear, how you broke the
looking-glass in the boudoir like an untamed
young monkey ? Talking of monkeys, Mr.
Cotswould, have you seen those delightful,
clever, amusing French pictures at that place
in Suffolk Street ? There’s a man
there — a Parisian — I forget his
honoured name — Leblanc, or
Lenoir, or Lebrun, or something—
but he’s a most humorous artist,
and he paints monkeys and storks
and all sorts of queer beasties
almost as quaintly and expressively
as you do. Mind, I say almost , for
I will never allow that any French¬
man could do anything quite so
good, quite so funnily mock-human,
as your marabouts and professors.”

“ What a charming hostess Mrs.

Le Geyt makes,” the painter ob¬
served to me after lunch. “ Such
tact! Such discrimination ! . . . .

And , what a devoted step-mother!”

“She is one of the local secre¬
taries of the Society for the Preven¬
tion of Cruelty to Children,” I said,
drily.

“ And charity begins at home,”

Hilda Wade added, in a significant
aside.

We walked home together as far
as Stanhope Gate. Our sense of
doom oppressed us. “And yet,” I
said, turning to her, as we left the
doorstep, “ I don’t doubt Mrs. Le
Geyt really believes she is a model
step-mother ! ”

“ Of course she believes it,” my
witch answered. “She has no more

doubt about that than about anything else.
Doubts are not in her line. She does every¬
thing exactly as it ought to be done—who
should know if not she ?—and therefore she
is never afraid of criticism. Hardening,
indeed ! that poor slender, tender, shrinking
little Ettie ! A frail exotic. She would harden
her into a skeleton if she had her way.
Nothing’s much harder than a skeleton I
suppose, except Mrs. Le Geyt’s manner of
training one.”

“ I should be sorry to think,” I broke in,
“ that that sweet little, floating thistledown
of a child I once knew was to be done to
death by her.”

“ Oh, as for that, she will not be done to
death,” Hilda answered, in her confident
way. “ Mrs. Le Geyt won’t live long enough.”

I started. “You think not?”

“ I don’t think. I am sure of it. We are
at the fifth act now. I watched Mr. Le Geyt
closely all through lunch, and I’m more con¬
fident than ever that the end is coming. He
is temporarily crushed : but he is like steam
in a boiler, seething, seething, seething. One

5 2 <5

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

day, she will sit on the safety-valve, and the
explosion will come. When it comes ”—she
raised aloft one quick hand in the air as if
striking a dagger home—“ good-bye to her S ”
For the next few months I saw much of
Le Geyt; and the more I saw of him, the
more I saw that my witch’s prognosis was
essentially correct. They never quarrelled:
but Mrs. Le Geyt in her unobtrusive way
held a quiet hand over her husband which
became increasingly apparent. In the midst
of her fancy-work (those busy fingers were
never idle) she kept her eyes well fixed on
him. Now and again I saw him glance at
his motherless girls with what looked like a
tender protecting regret, especially when
“ Clara ” had been most openly drilling them :
but he dared not interfere. She was crushing
their spirit as she was crushing their father’s
—and all, bear in mind, for the best of
motives ! She had their interest at heart:
she wanted to do what was right for
them. Her manner to him and to them
was always honey-sweet—in all externals;
yet one could somehow feel it was the
velvet glove that
masked the iron
hand: not cruel,
not harsh even, but
severely, irresistibly,
unflinchingly crush¬
ing. “Ettie, my
dear, get your brown
hat at once. What’s
that? Going to
rain ? I did not ask
you, my child, for
your opinion on the
weather. My own
suffices. A head¬
ache ? Oh, non¬
sense ! Headaches
are caused by want
of exercise. Nothing
so good for a touch
of headache as a
nice brisk walk
in Kensington
Gardens. Maisie,
hand like that:

As spring came on, however, I began to
hope that things were really mending. Le
Geyt looked brighter; some of his own
careless, happy-go-lucky self came back again
at intervals. He told me once, with a wistful
sigh, that he thought of sending the children
to school in the country—it would be better
for them, he said, and would take a little
work off dear Clara’s shoulders: for never
even to me was he disloyal to Clara. I
encouraged him in the idea. He went on
to say that the great difficulty in the way
was .... Clara. She was so conscientious :
she thought it her duty to look after the
children herself, and couldn’t bear to delegate
any part of that duty to others. Besides,
she had such an excellent opinion of the
Kensington High School!

When I told Hilda Wade of this, she set
her teeth together and answered at once :
“ That settles it ! The end is very near. He
will insist upon their going, to save them from
that woman’s ruthless kindness : and she will
refuse to give up any part of what she calls
her duty. He will reason with her : he will

THAT SETTLES IT ! THE END IS VERY NEAR.”

don’t hold your sister’s
it is imitation sympathy !
You are aiding and abetting her in setting
my wishes at nought. Now, no long faces!
What I require is cheerful obedience.”

A bland, autocratic martinet, smiling,
inexorable ! Poor, pale Ettie grew thinner
and wanner under her law daily, while
Maisie’s temper, naturally docile, was being
spoiled before one’s eyes by persistent,
needless thwarting.

plead for his children : she will be adamant.
Not angry—it is never the way of that tem¬
perament to get angry : just calmly, sedately,
and insupportably provoking. When she
goes too far, he will flare up at last: some
taunt will rouse him: the explosion will
come : and .... the children will go to
their Aunt Lina, whom they dote upon.
When all is said and done, it is the poor
man I pity ! ”

“ You said within twelve months.”

HILDA

WADE.

5 2 7

“ That was a bow drawn at a venture. It
may be a little sooner : it may be a little
later. But—next week or next month—it
is coming : it is coming ! ”

June smiled upon us once more ; and on
the afternoon of the 13th, the anniversary of
our first lunch together at the Le Geyts, I
was up at my work in the accident ward at
St. Nathaniel’s. “Well, the ides of June
have come, Sister W^ade ! ” I said, when I
met her, parodying Caesar.

“ But not yet gone,” she answered; and
a profound sense of foreboding spread
over her speaking face as she uttered the
words.

Her oracle disquieted me. “ Why, I dined
there last night,” I cried, “and all seemed
exceptionally well.”

“The calm before a storm, perhaps,” she
murmured.

Just at that moment I heard a boy crying
in the street, “ Pall Mall Gazette: ’ere
y’are : speshul edishun ! Shocking tragedy
at the West-end! Orful murder! ’Ere
y’are ! Speshul Globe I Pall Mall\ extry
speshul! ” •

A weird tremor broke over me. I walked
down into the street and bought a paper.
There it stared me in the face on the middle
page : “ Tragedy
at Campden Hill:

Well-known Bar¬
rister murders
his Wife : Sen¬
sational Details.”

I looked closer
and read. It was
just as I feared.

The Le Geyts 1
After I left their
house the night
before, husband
and wife must
have quarrelled,
no doubt over the
question of the
children’s school¬
ing : and at some
provoking word,
as it seemed,

Hugo must have
snatched up a
knife — “a little
ornamental Nor¬
wegian dagger,”

the report said, “ which happened to lie
close by on the cabinet in the drawing-room,”
and plunged it into his wife’s heart. “ The
unhappy lady died instantaneously, by all
appearances, and the dastardly crime was not
discovered by the servants till eight o’clock
this morning. Mr. Le Geyt is missing.”

I rushed up with the news to Nurse Wade,
who was at work in the accident ward. She
turned pale, but bent over her patient and
said nothing.

“ It is fearful to think,” I groaned out at
last, “for us who know all—that poor Le
Geyt will be hanged for it! Hanged for
attempting to protect his children ! ”

“ He will not be hanged,” my witch
answered, with the same unquestioning con¬
fidence as ever.

“ Why not ? ” I asked, astonished once
more at this bold prediction.

She went on bandaging the arm of the
patient whom she was attending. “ Because
. ... he will commit suicide,” she replied,
without moving a muscle.

“ How do you know that ? ”

She stuck a steel safety-pin with deft
fingers into the roll of lint. “ When I have
finished my day’s work,” she answered slowly,
still continuing the bandage, “ I may perhaps
find time to tell you.”

Curious JVater Sports.

Written and Illustrated by F. G. Callcott.

From a]

ITH the growing popularity
of the river amongst pleasure-
seekers, the list of sports con¬
nected with it has of recent
years become a much more
formidable one. The old forms
of racing were too slow, and needed too much
hard work and preliminary training for the
man who is anxious to show his skill without
the expenditure of any great amount of labour
or time. An account of some of the novelties
recently intro¬
duced may be of
interest, especially
to those who may
be thinking of
organizing such
sports during the
coming months.

The first of these
novelties seems to
have been the
Dongola race; why
so called it is im¬
possible to say.

It is rowed in
punts propelled by
six ladies or gentle¬
men, armed gener¬
ally with paddles,
though sometimes
punting-poles are

USed. This Was, From a)

I believe, first introduced
at Molesey, which has always
been the happy hunting-
ground of the more frivol¬
ous water sports. It is now
very general at nearly all the
up - river regattas except
Henley, which needs no
such attractions and sticks
entirely to business. From
this was developed the tug-
of-war in punts. The two
punts are fastened together
at one end and placed
broadside across the river,
when the crews paddle in
opposite directions, each
trying to drag the opposing
boat to the bank. The
struggle very frequently
ends in one at least of the
punts being filled with water, and gradually
sinking beneath the feet of its crew. For
this reason, no doubt, the pastime has
not yet found favour with the fair sex, but is
confined to those who do not object to a
ducking.

Another development of punting is “ punt¬
ing in canoes.” This also was first seen at
Molesey Invitation Regatta, and on this
occasion hardly one of the competitors was
able to bring his frail craft to the winning-

[ Photograph.

CURIOUS WATER SPORTS

529

post — a canoe, of
course, being very
much more liable
to be upset when
the occupier is
standing upright
than is the case
with a punt. Many
performers have
since, by practice,
become very expert
in its management,
and the sport may
now frequently be
seen at other
regattas.

Water jousting in
canoes is also an
innovation. In the
old sport, common

brom 0]

A WATER TOURNAMENT.

[ Photograph.

From a]

I Photograph.

amongst watermen, the
competitors stood at the
end of punts and tried
to upset each other’s
equilibrium by thrusts
from mops. The
amateur in adopting this
amusement has replaced
the punt by a canoe,
and in some cases a
water tournament is
organized where three
boats distinguished by
red mops contend against
an equal number armed
with blue mops.

The tub race, too,

Vol. xvii.—67

From ctl

[Photograph.

which was always held at
old - fashioned regattas for
the benefit of the boys, who
generally paddled about
with a spade for some time,
going in no particular direc¬
tion, finally upsetting their
lop-sided craft without arriv¬
ing at their destination, has
been imitated in the coracle
race, also introduced at
Molesey Invitation Regatta.
The coracle is very similar
to the tub, but has rather
greater floating abilities, and
with proper paddles can be
navigated in a very satis¬
factory manner.

The walking the greasy
pole for a pig is a very old
form of pastime which

53 °

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

always causes amuse¬
ment. As it is nearly
always the last item
in a regatta pro¬
gramme, it is rather
difficult to get enough
light for a photograph,
and one taken at
Sunbury will probably
be of interest.

The Water Derby
is seen at many
regattas both on the
river and on the
coast, the sport con¬
sisting in propelling
oneself by means of
a paddle while astride

From a]

THE WATER DERBY.

[Photograph.

From a] walking the greasy pole. [Photograph.

appeared at an up - river
regatta, and proceeded in a
leisurely fashion amongst the
crowd of rowing boats.

Plank rowing is a sport
which the writer came across
at a recent coast regatta.
The competitors stand on
planks which they can propel
by whatever means they
prefer, and to anyone who
does not object to getting his
feet wet the plank is a safer
means of transport than
would be generally supposed.

A novelty race held at
Hampton Court and Ditton’s
Aquatic Sports, 1898, on a
course stretching across the

of a tub decorated
with a horse’s
head. The steeds
generally seem
rather unruly, and
the riders are more
frequently thrown
than not.

Log-rolling can¬
not be said to have
yet been intro¬
duced in this
country as a sport,
it being confined
to a few exponents
of the art who
have had a proper
training, but one
of these recently

From a]

[Photograph.

CURIOUS WATER SPORTS.

53i

starting-point. The
makeshift craft
used included a
clothes - basket, a
table turned upside
down, a washing-
tub, and an air-
mattress, the latter
finishing first, while
most of the others
performed somer¬
saults in mid¬
stream.

The Jubilee race
at Molesey Invita¬
tion Regatta held
at the end of the
1897 season was a
race between two

river, was remark¬
able for the pecu
liarity of the vessels
entered. The only
conditions were
that the craft em¬
ployed must be of
a kind not pre¬
viously used in a
race, and that on
reaching the oppo¬
site bank the com¬
petitor must land
and drag his boat
after him round a
pole and paddle
back again to the

PLANK ROWING.

L Photograph.

NOVELTY RACE.

[Photograph.

eights, one being
a representative
Molesey B.C.
eight of 1897, and
the other com¬
posed of old mem¬
bers of the club
supposed to be of
the time of 1837,
and dressed in the
costume of the
period. The race
looked like a win
for the 1837 crew
until within a few
yards of the finish,
when the boat cap¬
sized, and the top-
hatted crew had
to swim ashore.

PRETTY girl stood alone on
the jetty of an old-fashioned
wharf at Wapping, looking
down upon the silent deck of
a schooner below. No smoke
issued from the soot-stained
cowl of the galley, and the fore-scuttle and
the companion were both inhospitably closed.
The quiet of evening was over everything,
broken only by the whirr of the paddles of
a passenger-steamer as it passed carefully up
the centre of the river, or the plash of a
lighterman’s huge sweep as he piloted his
unwieldy craft down on the last remnant of
the ebb-tide. In-shore, various craft sat
lightly on the soft Thames mud : some
affecting a rigid uprightness, others with
their decks at various angles of discomfort.

The girl stood a minute or two in thought,
and put her small foot out tentatively towards
the rigging some few feet distant. It was
an awkward jump, and she was still con¬
sidering it, when she heard footsteps behind,
and a young man, increasing his pace as he
saw her, came rapidly on to the jetty.

“ This is the foam, isn’t it ? ” inquired the
girl, as he stood expectantly. “ I want to
• see Captain Flower.”

“ He went ashore about half an hour ago,”
said the other.

The girl tapped impatiently with her foot.
“You don’t know what time he’ll be back, I
suppose ? ” she inquired.

He shook his head. “ I think he’s gone
for the evening,” he said, pondering; “he
was very careful about his dress.”

The ghost of a smile trembled on the girl’s

lips. “ He has gone to call for me,” she
r .iid. “ I must have missed him. I wonder
what I’d better do.”

“ Wait here till he comes back,” said the
man, without hesitation.

The girl wavered. “ I suppose he’ll guess
I’ve come here,” she said, thoughtfully.

“ Sure to,” said the other, promptly.

“ It’s a long way to Poplar,” she said,
reflectively. “ You’re Mr. Fraser, the mate,
I suppose? Captain blower has spoken to
me about you.”

“ That’s my name,” said the other.

“ My name’s Tyrell,” said the girl, smiling.
“ I daresay you’ve heard Captain Flower
mention it ? ”

“ Must have done,” said Fraser, slowly.
He stood looking at the girl before him, at
her dark hair and shining dark eyes, inwardly
wondering why the captain, a fervid admirer
of the sex, had not mentioned her.

“ Will you come on board and wait ? ” he
asked. “I’ll bring a chair up on deck for
you if you will.”

The girl stood a moment in consideration,
and then, with another faint reference to the
distance of Poplar from Wapping, assented.
The mate sprang nimbly into the ratlines,
and then, extending a hand, helped her
carefully to the deck.

“ How nice it feels to be on a ship again!”
said the girl, looking contentedly about her
as the mate brought up a canvas chair from
below. “ I used to go with my father some¬
times when he was alive, but I haven’t been
on a ship now for two years or more.”

The mate, who was watching her closely,
made no reply. He was thinking that a

A MASTER OF CRAFT

533

straw hat with scarlet flowers went remark¬
ably well with the dark eyes and hair beneath
it, and also that the deck of the schooner
had never before seemed such an inviting
place as it was at this moment.

“ Captain Flower keeps his ship in good
condition,” said the visitor, somewhat em¬
barrassed by his gaze.

“ He takes a pride in her,” said Fraser ;
“and it’s his uncle’s craft, so there’s no stint.
She never wants for paint or repairs, and
Flower’s as nice a man to sail under as one
could wish. We’ve had the same crew for
years.”

“ He’s very kind and jolly,” said the girl.

“ He’s one of the best fellows breathing,”
said the mate, warmly ; “ he saved my life
once—went overboard after me when we
were doing over ten knots an hour, and was
nearly drowned himself.”

“ That was fine of him,” said Miss Tyrell,
eagerly. “ He never told me anything about
it, and I think that’s rather fine too. I like
brave men. Have you ever been overboard
after anybody ? ”

Fraser shook his head somewhat despon¬
dently. “ I’m not much of a swimmer,”
said he.

“ But you’d go in for anybody if you saw
them drowning ? ” persisted Miss
Tyrell, in a surprised voice.

“ I don’t know, I’m sure,” said
Fraser. “ I hope I should.”

“ Do you mean to say,” said
Miss Tyrell, severely, “ that if I fell
into the river here, for instance,
you wouldn’t jump in and try to
save me?”

“ Of course I should,” said Fraser,
hotly. “ I should jump in after
you if I couldn’t swim a
stroke.”

Miss Tyrell, somewhat
taken aback, murmured her
gratification.

“ I should go in after
you,” continued the mate,
who was loth to depart from
the subject, “if it was blow¬
ing a gale, and the sea full
of sharks.”

“ What a blessing it is
there are no sharks round
our coast,” said Miss Tyrell,
in somewhat of a hurry to
get away from the mate’s
heroism. “ Have you ever
seen one ? ”

“ Saw them in the Indian

foreign-going ships,
“ I wonder you gave

Ocean when I was an apprentice,” replied
Fraser.

“ You’ve been on
then ? ” said the girl,
it up for this.”

“ This suits me better,” said Fraser ; “ my
father’s an old man, and he wanted me
home. I shall have a little steamer he’s got
an interest in as soon as her present skipper
goes, so it’s just as well for me to know these
waters.”

In this wise they sat talking until evening
gave way to night, and the deck of the Foam
was obscured in shadow. Lamps were lit on
the wharves, and passing craft hung out their
side-lights. The girl rose to her feet.

“ I won’t wait any longer ; I must be
going,” she said.

“ He may be back at any moment,” urged
the mate.

“ No, I’d better go, thank you,” replied
the girl; “ it’s getting late. I don’t like going
home alone.”

“ I’ll come with you, if you’ll let me,” said
the mate, eagerly.

“ All the way ? ” said Miss Tyrell, with the
air of one bargaining.

“ Of course,” said Fraser.

“ Well, I’ll give him another half-hour,

I SHOULD JUM}’ IN AFIEK YOU IK I COULDN’T SWIM A STROKE.

534

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

then,” said the girl, calmly. “ Shall we go
down into the cabin ? It’s rather chilly up
here now.”

The mate showed her below, and, lighting
the lamp, took a seat opposite and told her
a few tales of the sea, culled when he was an
apprentice, and credulous of ear. Miss Tyrell
retaliated with some told her by her father,
from which Fraser was able to form his own
opinion of that estimable mariner. The last
story was of a humorous nature, and the
laughter which ensued grated oddly on the
ear of the sturdy, good-looking seaman who
had just come on board. He stopped at the
companion for a moment listening in amaze¬
ment, and then, hastily descending, entered
the cabin.

“ Poppy ! ” he cried.

“Why, I’ve been waiting
up at the Wheelers’ for
you for nearly a couple
of hours.”

“ I must have missed
you,” said Miss Tyrell,
serenely. “Annoying,
isn’t it ? ”

The master of the
Roam said it was, and
seemed from his manner
to be anxious to do more
justice to the subject than
that.

“ I didn’t dream you’d
come down here,” he
said, at length.

“No, you never in¬
vited me, so I came
without,” said the girl,
softly ; “ it’s a dear little
schooner, and I like it
very much. I shall come
often.”

A slight shade passed
over Captain Flower’s
face, but he said nothing.

“ You must take me back now,” said Miss
Tyrell. “ Good-bye, Mr. Fraser.”

She held out her hand to the mate, and
giving a friendly pressure, left the cabin,
followed by Flower.

The mate let them get clear of the ship,
and then, clambering on to the jetty, watched
them off the wharf, and, plunging his hands
into his pockets, whistled softly.

“Poppy Tyrell,” he said to himself, slowly.
“ Poppy Tyrell! I wonder why the skipper
has never mentioned her. I wonder why she
took his arm. I wonder whether she knows
that he’s engaged to be married.”

Deep in thought he paced slowly up and
down the wharf, and then wandered listlessly
round the piled-up empties and bags of sugar
in the open floor beneath the warehouse. A
glance through the windows of the office
showed him the watchman slumbering peace¬
fully by the light of a solitary gas-jet, and he
went back to the schooner and gazed at the
dark water and the dim shapes of the neigh¬
bouring craft in a vein of gentle melan¬
choly. He walked to the place where her
chair had been, and tried to conjure up the
scene again ; then, becoming uncertain as to
the exact spot, went down to the cabin,
where, the locker being immovable, no such
difficulty presented itself. He gazed his fill
and then, smoking a
meditative pipe, turned
in and fell fast asleep.

He was awakened sud¬
denly from a dream of
rescuing a small shark
surrounded by a horde
of hungry Poppies, by
the hurried and dramatic
entrance of Captain Fred
Flower. The captain’s
eyes were wild and his
face harassed, and he
unlocked the door of his
state-room and stood with
the handle of it in his
hand before he paused to
answer the question in
, the mate’s sleepy eyes.

“ It’s all right, Jack,”
he said, breathlessly.

“ I’m glad of that,” said
the mate, calmly.

“ I hurried a bit,” said
the skipper.

“Anxious to see me
again, I suppose,” said
the mate ; “ what are you
listening for ? ”

“ Thought I heard somebody in the water
as I came aboard,” said Flower, glibly.

“ What have you been up to ? ” inquired
the other, quickly.

Captain Flower turned and regarded him
with a look of offended dignity.

“ Good heavens! don’t look like that,”
said the mate, misreading it. “ You haven’t
chucked anybody overboard, have you ? ”

“ If anybody should happen to come
aboard this vessel,” said Flower, without
deigning to reply to the question, “and
ask questions about the master of it,
he’s as unlike me, Jack, as any two

THE CAPTAIN.

A MASTER OF CRAFT

535

people in this world can be. D’ye under¬
stand ? ”

“ You’d better tell me what you’ve been
up to,” urged the mate.

“As for your inquisitiveness, Jack, it don’t
become you,” said Flower, with severity; “ but
I don’t suppose it’ll be necessary to trouble
you at all.”

He walked out of the cabin and stood
listening at the foot of the companion-ladder,
and the mate heard him walk a little way up.
When he re-entered the cabin his face had
cleared, and he smiled comfortably.

“ I shall just turn in for an hour,” he said,
amiably; “good-night, Jack.”

“ Good-night,” said the curious mate. “ I

say-” he sat up suddenly in his bunk and

looked seriously at the skipper.

“ Well ? ” said the other.

“ I suppose,” said the mate, with a slight
cough—“ I suppose it’s nothing about that
girl that was down here ? ”

“ Certainly not,” said
Flower, violently. He ex¬
tinguished the lamp, and,
entering his state - room,
closed the door and locked
it, and the mate, after
lying a little while drowsily
wondering what it all
meant, fell asleep again.

II.

While the skipper and

mate slumbered peacefully
below, the watchman sat
on a post at the
extreme end of the
jetty, yearning for
human society and
gazing fearfully be¬
hind him at the
silent, dimly - lit
wharf. The two gas-
lamps high up on
the walls gave but a
faint light, and in
no way dispelled the deep shadows thrown
by the cranes and the piled-up empties

which littered the place. He gazed in¬

tently at the dark opening of the floor
beneath the warehouse, half-fancying that
he could again discern the veiled appa¬
rition which had looked in at him through
the office window, and had finally vanished
before his -horror-struck eyes in a corner
the only outlet to which was a grating.

Albeit a careful man and tender, the
watchman pinched himself. He was

HALF-FANCYING THAT HE COULD DISCERN THE
VEILED APPARITION.”

awake, and, rubbing the injured part, swore
softly.

“ If I go down and tell ’em,” he murmured
softly, in allusion to the crew, “ what’ll they
do ? Laugh at me.”

He glanced behind him again, and, rising
hastily to his feet, nearly fell on to the deck
below as a dark figure appeared for a moment
at the opening and then vanished again.
With more alacrity than might have been
expected of a man of his figure, he dropped
into the rigging and lowered himself on to
the schooner.

The scuttle was open, and the seamen’s
lusty snores fell upon his ears like sweet
music. He backed down the ladder, and
groped in the darkness towards the bunks
with outstretched hand. One snore stopped
instantly.

“Eh !” said a sleepy voice. “Wot ! ’Ere,
what the blazes are you up to ? ”

“A’ right, Joe,” said the
watchman, cheerfully.

“ But it ain’t all right,”
said the seaman, sharply,
“ cornin’ down in the dark
an’ ketchin’ ’old o’ people’s
noses. Give me quite a
start, you did.”

“ It’s nothing to the start
I’ve ’ad,” said the other,
pathetically ; “ there’s a

ghost on the wharf, Joe.
I want you to come up
with me and see what it
is.”

“ Yes, I’m sure to do
that,” said Joe, turning
over in his bunk till it
creaked with his weight.
“ Go away, and let me get
to sleep again. I don’t get
a night’s rest like you do,
you know.”

“ Wha’s the matter ? ”
inquired a sleepy voice.

“ Old George ’ere ses
there’s a ghost on the wharf,” said Joe.

“ I’ve seen it three times,” said the watch¬
man, eager for sympathy.

“ I expect it’s a death-warning for you,
George,” said the voice, solemnly. “ The
last watchman died sudden, you remember.”

“ So he did,” said Joe.

“ His ’art was wrong,” said George, curtly;
“’ad been for years.”

“ Well, we can’t do nothin’ for you, George,”
said Joe, kindly ; “it’s no good us going up.
We sha’n’t see it. It isn’t meant for us.”

THE S TEA AH MAGAZINE.

536

“ ’Ow d’yer know it’s a ghost? ” said a third
voice, impatiently; “ very likely while you’re
all jawing about it down ’ere it’s a-burglin’
the offis.”

Joe gave a startled grunt, and, rolling out
of his bunk, grabbed his trousers, and
began to dress. Three other shadowy, forms
followed suit, and, hastily dressing, followed
the watchman on deck and gained the wharf.
They went through the gloomy ground floor
in a body, yawning sleepily.

“I shouldn’t like to be a watchman,” said
a young ordinary seaman named Tim, with a
shiver ; “ a ghost might easy do anything with
you while you was all alone. P’r’aps it walks
up an’ down behind you, George, makin’
faces. We shall be gorn in another hour,
George.”

The office, when they reached it, was
undisturbed, and, staying only long enough
to drink the watchman’s coffee, which was

There was a faint scream and an exclamation
of triumph from the seaman. “ I’ve got it! ”
he shouted.

The others followed hastily, and saw the
fearless Joe firmly gripping the apparition.
At the sight the cook furtively combed his
hair with his fingers, while Tim modestly
buttoned up his jacket.

“ Take this lantern, so’s I can hold her
better,” said Joe, extending it.

The cook took it from him and, holding
it up, revealed the face of a tall, good-looking
woman of some seven or eight and twenty.

u What are you doin’ here?” demanded
the watchman, with official austerity.

“ I’m waiting for a friend of mine,” said
the visitor, struggling with Joe. “ Make this
man leave go of me, please.”

“ Joe,” said the watchman, with severity,
“ I’m ashamed of you. Who is your friend,

miss r

heating over a gas-jet, they
began to search the wharf,
Joe leading with a lantern.

left it and

“ His name is Robinson,” said the lady.
“ He came on here -about an hour
ago. I’m waiting for him.”

“ THEY BEGAN TO SEARCH THE WHARF.”

“ Are we all ’ere ? ” demanded Tim, sud¬
denly.

“/ am,” said the cook, emphatically.

“ ’Cos I see su’thing right behind them
bags o’ sugar,” said the youth, clutching
hold of the cook on one side and the watch¬
man on the other. “ Spread out a bit,
chaps.”

Joe dashed boldly round with the lantern.

“ There’s nobody here,” said the watch¬
man, shaking his head.

“ I think he has gone on that little
ship,” said the lady; “1 suppose I can
wait here till he comes off. I’m not doing
any harm.”

“The ship’ll sail in about an hour’s time,
miss,” said Tim, regretfully, “but there ain’t
nobody o' the name of Robinson aboard her.

A MASTER OF CRAFT

537

All the crew’s ’ere, and there’s only the
skipper and mate on her besides.”

“ You can’t deceive me, young man, so
don’t try it,” said the lady, sharply. “ I
followed him on here, and he hasn’t gone off,
because the gate has been locked since.”

“I can’t think who the lady means,” said
Joe. “ I ain’t seen nobody come aboard. If
he did, he’s down the cabin.”

“ Well, I’ll go down there,” said the lady,
promptly.

“Well, miss, it’s nothing to do with us,”
said Joe, “but it’s my opinion you’ll find the
skipper and mate has turned in.”

“Well, I’m going down,” said the lady,
gripping her parasol firmly by the middle;
“ they can’t eat me.”

She walked towards the Foam , followed by
the perplexed crew, and with the able assis¬
tance of five pairs of hands reached the deck.
The companion was open, and at
Joe’s whispered instructions she
turned and descended the steps
backwards.

It was at first quite dark in
the cabin, but as the visitor’s eyes
became accustomed to it, she
could just discern the outlines of
a small table, while a steady
breathing assured her that some¬
body was sleeping close by.

Feeling her way to the table she
discovered a locker, and taking a
seat coughed gently. The breath¬
ing continuing quite undisturbed,
she coughed again, twice.

The breathing stopped sud¬
denly. “ Who the devil’s that
coughing ? ” asked a surprised
voice.

“ I beg pardon, I’m sure,”
visitor, “ but is there a Mr. Robinson down
here ? ”

The reply was so faint and smothered that
she could not hear it. It was evident that
the speaker, a modest man, was now speak¬
ing from beneath the bed-clothes.

“Is Mr. Robinson here?” she repeated,
loudly.

“ Never heard of him,” said the smothered
voice.

“ It’s my opinion,” said the visitor, hotly,
“ that you’re trying to deceive me. Have
you got a match ? ”

The owner of the voice said that he had
not, and with chilly propriety added that he
wouldn’t give it to her if he had. Where¬
upon the lady rose, and, fumbling on the
little mantelpiece, found a box and struck

Vol. xvii.—68.

one. There was a lamp fixed at the side
of the mantelpiece, and calmly removing the
chimney she lit it.

A red, excited face, with the bed-clothes
fast about its neck, appeared in a small bunk
and stared at her in speechless amaze. The
visitor returned his gaze calmly, and then
looked carefully round the cabin.

“ Where does that lead to ? ” she asked,
pointing to the door of the state-room.

The mate, remembering in time the
mysterious behaviour of Flower, considered
the situation. “ That’s the pantry,” he said,
untruthfully.

The visitor rose and tried the handle. The
door was locked, and she looked doubtfully
at the mate. “I suppose that’s a leg of
mutton I can hear asleep in there,” she said,
with acerbity.

“You can suppose what you like,” said the

“why don’t you go away?”

mate, testily; “ why don’t you go away ? I’m
surprised at you.”

“You’ll be more surprised before I’ve done
with you,” said the lady, with emotion. “ My
Fred’s in there, and you know it.”

“Your Fred!” said Fraser, in great
surprise.

“ Mr. Robinson,” said the visitor, correct¬
ing herself.

“ I tell you there’s nobody in there except
the skipper,” said the mate.

“You said it was the pantry just now,”
exclaimed the other, sharply.

“ The skipper sleeps in the pantry so’s he
can keep his eye on the meat,” explained
Fraser.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

538

The visitor looked at him angrily. “ What
sort of a man is he ? ” she inquired, suddenly.

“ You’ll soon know if he comes out,” said
the mate. “ He’s the worst-tempered man
afloat, I should think. If he comes out and
finds you here, I don’t know what he’ll do.”

“ I’m not afraid of him,” said the other,
with spirit. “ What do you call him ?
Skipper ? ”

The mate nodded, and the visitor tapped
loudly at the door. “ Skipper ! ” she cried,

“ Skipper ! ”

No answer being vouchsafed, she repeated
her cry in a voice louder than before.

“ He’s a heavy sleeper,” said the perturbed
Fraser; “ better go away, there’s a good
girl.”

The lady, scornfully ignoring him, rapped
on the door and again called upon its
occupant. Then, despite her assurance, she
sprang back with a scream as a reply burst
through the door with the suddenness and
fury of a thunder-clap.

“ Halloa ! ” it said.

“My goodness,” said the visitor, aghast.

“ What a voice ! What a terrible voice !”

She recovered herself and again approached
the door.

“ Is there a gentleman named Robinson in
there ? ” she asked, timidly.

“ Gentleman - named - who ? ” came the
thunder-clap again.

“ Robinson,” said the lady, faintly.

“ No ! No ! ” said the thunder-clap.
Then — “ Go away,” it rumbled. “ Go

AWAY.”

The reverberation of that mighty voice
rolled and shook through the cabin. It even
affected the mate, for the visitor, glancing
towards him, saw that he had nervously con¬
cealed himself beneath the bed-clothes, and
was shaking with fright.

“ I daresay his bark is worse than his bite,”
said the visitor, trembling; “ anyway, I’m
going to stay here. I saw Mr. Robinson
come here, and I believe he’s got him in
there. Killing him, perhaps. Oh ! Oh ! ”

To the mate’s consternation she began to
laugh, and then changed to a piercing scream,
and, unused to the sex as he was, he realized
that this was the much-dreaded hysteria of
which he had often heard, and faced her
with a face as pallid as her own.

“Chuck some water over yourself,” he
said, hastily, nodding at a jug which stood on
the table. “ I can’t very well get up to do
it myself.”

The lady ignored this advice, and by dint
of much strength of mind regained her self¬

control. She sat down on the locker again,
and folding her arms showed clearly her
intention to remain.

Half an hour passed ; the visitor still sat
grimly upright. Twice she sniffed slightly,
and, with a delicate handkerchief, pushed up
her veil and wiped away the faint beginnings
of a tear.

“I suppose you think I’m acting strangely?”
she said, catching the mate’s eye after one
of these episodes.

“ Oh, don’t mind me,” said the mate, with
studied politeness ; “ don’t mind hurting my
feelings or taking my character away.”

“ Pooh ! you’re a man,” said the visitor,
scornfully; “ but, character or no character,
I’m going to see into that room before I go
away, if I sit here for three weeks.”

“ How’re you going to manage about
eating and drinking all that time ? ” inquired
Fraser.

“ How are you ? ” said the visitor; “ you
can’t get up while I’m here, you know.”

“ Well, we’ll see,” said the mate, vaguely.

“ I’m sure I don’t want to annoy any¬
body,” said the visitor, softening, “but I’ve
had a lot of trouble, young man, and, what’s
worse, I’ve been made a fool of. This day
three weeks ago I ought to have been
married.”

“ I’m sure you ought,” murmured the other.

The lady ignored the interruption.
“ Travelling under Government on secret
service, he said he was,” she continued;
“ always away : here to-day, China to-morrow,
and America the day after.”

“ Flying ? ” queried the interested mate.

“ I daresay,” snapped the visitor ; “ any¬
thing to tell me, I suppose. We were to be
married by special license. I’d even got my
trousseau ready.”

“And it didn’t come off?” inquired the
mate, leaning out of his bunk.

“ All my relations bought new clothes,
too,” continued the visitor ^ “ leastways,
those that could afford it did. He even
went and helped me choose the cake.”

“ Well, is that wrong ? ” asked the puzzled
mate.

“ He didn’t buy it, he only chose it,”
said the other, having recourse to her hand¬
kerchief again. “ He went outside the
shop to see whether there was one he
would like better, and when I came out he
had disappeared.”

“ He must have met with an accident,
said the mate, politely.

“ I saw him to-night,” said the lady, tersely.
“ Once or twice he had mentioned Wapping

A MASTER OF CRAFT

539

in conversation, and then seemed to check
himself. That was my clue. I’ve been
round this dismal, heathenish place for a
fortnight. To-night I saw him ; he came
on this wharf, and he has ?iot gone off. . . .
It’s my belief he’s in that room!”

Before the mate could reply the hoarse
voice of the watchman came down the
companion - way. “ Ha’-past eleven, sir ;
tide’s just on the turn.”

“Aye, aye,” said the mate. He turned
imploringly to the visitor.

“ Would you do me the favour just to
step on deck a minute ? ”

“What for?” inquired the visitor, shortly.

“Because I want to get up,” said the mate.

“ I sha’n’t move,” said the lady.

“But I’ve got to get up, I tell you,” said
the mate ; “ we’re getting under way in ten
minutes.”

“And what might that be?” asked the
lady.

“ Why, we make a start. You’d better go
ashore unless you want to be carried off.”

“ I sha’n’t move,” repeated the visitor.

“Well, I’m sorry to be rude,” said the
mate. “ George.”

“ Sir,” said the watchman, from above.

“Bring down a couple o’ men and take
this lady ashore,” said the mate, sternly.

“I’ll send a couple down, sir,” said the
watchman, and moved
off to make a selec¬
tion.

“ I shall scream
‘ murder and thieves,’ ”
said the lady, her eyes
gleaming. “I’ll bring
the police up and
cause a scandal. Then
perhaps I shall see into
that room.”

In face of deter¬
mination like this the
mate’s courage gave
way, and in a voice of
much anxiety he called
upon his captain for
instructions.

“ Cast off,” bellowed the mighty voice.
“ IF-YOUR-SWEETHEART-WON’t - GO -ASHORE-
SHE - MUST - COME - TOO.—YOU - MUST - PAY -
HER - PASSAGE.”

“ Well, of all the cursed impudence,”
muttered the incensed mate. “Well, if
you’re bent on coming,” he said, hotly, to
the visitor, “just go on deck while I dress.”

The lady hesitated a moment and then
withdrew. On deck the men eyed her
curiously, but made no attempt to interfere
with her, and in a couple of minutes the
mate came running up to take charge.

“Where are we going?” inquired the
lady, with a trace of anxiety in her voice.

“ France,” said Fraser, turning away.

The visitor looked nervously round. At
the adjoining wharf a sailing barge was also
getting under way, and a large steamer was
slowly turning in the middle of the river.
She took a pace or two towards the side.

“Cast off,” said Fraser, impatiently, to the
watchman.

“ Wait a minute,” said the visitor, hastily,
“ I want to think.”

“Cast off,” repeated the mate.

_ The watchman obeyed, and the schooner’s
side moved slowly from the wharf. At the
sight the visitor’s nerve forsook her, and with a
frantic cry she ran to the side and, catching the
watchman’s outstretched hand, sprang ashore.

“ Good - bye,” sang
out the mate; “ sorry
you wouldn’t come to
France with us. The
lady was afraid of the
foreigners , George. If it
had been England she
wouldn’t have minded.”

“Aye, aye,” said
the watchman, signifi¬
cantly, and, as the
schooner showed her
stern, turned to answer,
with such lies as he
thought the occasion
demanded, the eager
questions of his fair
companion.

(To be continued.)

From Behind the Speaker's Chair.

LI.

(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)

A PLEASING hope that last
A dead Session fluttered the breast of
hope. the Chancellor of the Exchequer
was doomed to disappointment.
When discovery was made that Mr. Villiers,
who for years had been in receipt of a
Cabinet pension of ^2,000 a year, died
worth ^354,687 15s. 9d., it was assumed
that the executors would make haste to repay
with compound interest the aggregate of the
pension drawn. There had evidently been
a mistake somewhere. The pension of
ex-Cabinet Ministers is a plan devised
towards the middle of the century with the
commendable object of preventing statesmen
out of office from suffer¬
ing in their personal
estate. Proportionately
the emoluments of
Ministers who serve the
British Crown are pitiful.

Mr. Gladstone, who for
more than sixty years
devoted his time to the
service of the country,
died leaving a personal
fortune amounting to
about one-seventh of that
bequeathed by Mr.

Villiers. Mr. Gladstone
never drew the pension
of an ex-Cabinet Min¬
ister, taking his salary
only when in office. At
one time he even saved
the Exchequer the
annual amount of a first-
class Ministerial salary
by combining the work
of two offices for the
remuneration of one.

Mr. Gladstone inherited a modest
“ grand personal fortune, and never had
cross.” occasion to make the indispens¬
able declaration that accom¬
panies application for Cabinet pension—that
its allotment is necessary in order that the
suppliant may maintain the position of an
ex-Minister of the Crown. Mr. Disraeli was
in other circumstances, and, very properly,
availed himself of the privilege of a pension
the country cheerfully paid.

A MISTAKE
SOME¬
WHERE.

A PENSIONER.

Another man of genius whose case the
Cabinet pension fund fortuitously fits is Lord
Cross. There is a general impression that
he is a man of supreme business capacity,
whose knowledge of financial affairs in con¬
nection with the investment of private
property is justly valued in the highest
quarter. There is even a dim notion that he
is beneficially connected with a flourishing
banking institution. This, like much other
talk about public men, must be a popular
delusion. Lord Cross is a patriot statesman
who, having for a brief time enjoyed in suc¬
cession the emoluments of Home Secretary
and Secretary of State for India, has for many
years regularly drawn
his ^2,000, paid quar¬
terly from the pension
list.

When Mr.
Villiers began
to draw his
pension he,
like Lord Cross, must
needs have made the
statutory declaration that
the money was necessary
to enable him to main¬
tain a position compati¬
ble with his former
Ministerial office. That
the solemn declaration
agreed with his circum¬
stances at the time is
beyond the shadow of
a doubt. Obviously they
must have changed at
some later period, or the
pensioner would not have
been in a position to be¬
queath to his nephews
something over a third of a million sterling.
Mr. Arthur Balfour, approached last Session
on the subject, privately intimated to the
member who placed the question on the
paper that, in his opinion, the published
statement of Mr. Villiers’s personalty did not
affect the question of the pension. He had,
Mr. Balfour said, been enriched by the
bequeathal of the fortune of a lady, but had
resolutely declined to benefit by the bequest,
now transferred to his heirs.

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR.

54i

There is evidently a serious misunder¬
standing here, either on Mr. Balfour’s part
or on that of the member with whom he
communicated. The lady in question was
Miss Mellish, who died at her residence in
Great Stanhope Street on the 17th of
February, 1880. She left personal estate
sworn under ^120,000 value. This she
bequeathed in trust to pay the income to
Mr. Villiers during his life, it passing abso¬
lutely on Mr. Villiers’s death to another
gentleman, named co-executor with him.
These yearly payments, accruing only since
1880. would not amount to anything like
^354,687, not to mention the fifteen and
ninepence.

^ I understand that during the
present Session an attempt will
CASE be made to enforce a regulation
preventing recurrence of this
scandal. Some years ago an ex-Liberal
Minister, who at a particular date found
himself in a position to make the statutory
declaration which is an essential preliminary
to receiving such pension, came into a
fortune. Whilst in his mind was crystallizing
the simply honest intention of writing to the
Treasury to inform them of his good fortune,
and begging that his name might be removed
from the pension list, hon. gentlemen seated
opposite in the House of Commons, zealous
for public economy,
began to move in the
matter. Questions were
with relentless perti¬
nacity addressed to the
Chancellor of the Ex¬
chequer, who was speed¬
ily able to announce that
the pension was stopped.

What is needed is
a further regulation that
once a year, or at least
triennially, recipients of
these pensions shall be required to renew
their declaration as to the condition of their
private resources. Mr. Villiers had been for
so long in receipt of a pension granted in
recognition of a few years’ service at the Poor
Law Board, that he came to regard it as a
matter of course, forgetting the definite
condition upon which it had been allotted.
Had he been reminded by some such com¬
munication as is here suggested, he would
have awakened to a true sense of the situation,
and as an honourable man would forthwith
have relinquished the pension, possibly even
have repaid what he had inadvertently over¬
drawn.

A romance When , the late Lord Barrington

OF THE sevent “ m Succession to the Irish
^ ' Viscountcy, was made a peer

'of the United Kingdom, people
asked why. He had long sat as member
for that intelligent constituency of Eye,
immediately afterwards connected with quite
another order of statesman. He never,
as far as I remember, took part in debate,
and such services as he rendered to the
State appeared to be adequately rewarded
by his appointment as Vice-Chamberlain of
the Queen’s household. Nevertheless, Lord
Beaconsfield, finding his Government crushed
by the General Election of 1880, made haste,
before it fell, to make Lord Barrington an
English peer.

Members of the House of Commons, ran¬
sacking their memories for suggestion of
reason, recalled how one night, whilst Dizzy
was still with us in the Commons, he, awaken¬
ing from profound reverie, could not find
his eye-glass. He wanted to stick it in his
right eye and take his accustomed survey of
the House. With a haste and perturbation
foreign to his impassive manner, he rooted
about in the recesses of his waistcoat, tugged
at his shirt-collar, peered on the ground at
his feet, had given it up for a bad job, when
Lord Barrington, who was sitting near him,
quietly put his hand between the Premier’s
shoulders and brought
round the errant glass.

Dizzy, though not
demonstrative, never for¬
got a friend or a favour.
So it came about five
years later, when the
reins of power were slip¬
ping out of his fingers,
he held them for a
moment longer to give
Lord Barrington a seat
in the House of Lords
and a place on the roll of the English peer¬
age. At least, that was what was said at the
time in the private conversation of Lord
Barrington’s friends.

HER The late Lord Herschell made his
, mark in the House of Commons
at the very first opportunity. I
have occasion to remember it, for
the member for the City of Dur¬
ham, after he came to the Woolsack, more
than once alluded in terms of quite undeserved
kindness to an episode connected with the
event. When Herschell came into Parliament
he was quite unknown outside Bar and Circuit
circles. Over a space of a quarter of a

“ THE LOST EYE-GLASS.’

542

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

century I well remember how one night there
rose from the third bench above the gangway,
on the Opposition side, a dark-visaged, self-
possessed, deliberately spoken young man,
who, making his
maiden speech,
addressed the House
as if he had been
born and nurtured
on the premises.

The topic was the
Deceased Wife’s
Sister Bill, the audi¬
ence small, and not
d e mon s t r a t ive 1 y
appreciative. I was
much struck with
the new-comer’s
capacity and promise,
and noted them (I
think) in the articles
“Under the Clock”
then commencing in
the World.

In later years praise
and appreciation
came full-handed to
the Solicitor-General,
the Lord Chancellor,
the chosen represent¬
ative of Great Britain
in International con¬
ferences. Lord Herschell, not given to
gushing, more than once said that apprecia¬
tion coming at that particular time was
more useful in its encouragement, more
gratefully remembered, than was the din
of applause that greeted and sustained his
prime.

LORD HERSCHELL—A
SKETCH IN THE LOBBY.

Herschell did admirably in the
in the House of Commons, steadily
lords, working his way through it to
the Woolsack. But he was at
his best in the House of Lords. The place,
its surroundings, and its associations were
more in unison with his unemotionable,
somewhat cold, stately nature and manner.
He had not the light touch that delights a
jaded House of Commons. He always
spoke as if he were seated, wigged and
gowned, on the Bench, never varying from
judicial manner. In the Lords, whilst the
same style was prevalent, there was some¬
thing in the prevailing atmosphere, and in
the relative position of the party to which he
belonged and the overwhelming numbers
opposed to it, that stirred the depths of
his nature. When he stepped aside from
the Woolsack to take part in debate,

he spoke with an animation of voice and
gesture quite unfamiliar with him in the
Commons. Perhaps the associations of the
wig and gown with their memories of assize
conflict had something to do with the
increased animation. However that be, it
was strongly marked, and added considerably
to the effect of his speech.

As years advanced and honours
a pass- increased, Herschell’s conscien-
over. tiousness, his shrinking from any
step that savoured of a job, grew
in predominance. He raised quite a storm
by his disinclination to make use of the
magisterial Bench as a means of distributing
rewards among good Liberals. The same
extreme, perhaps morbid, delicacy ruled his
conduct in the appointment of judges. There
was a time during his Lord Chancellorship
when the long-overlooked claim of Mr.
Arthur Cohen to a judgeship seemed certain
of recognition. Everybody said Cohen would
be the new judge. Lord Herschell did not
question his capacity or suitability. But Mr.
Cohen had sat in the House of Commons for
Southwark, and had taken active part in
furthering the cause of the Liberal party.
Herschell felt conscious of a disposition to
recognise party services of that character and
lived them down. Someone else who had

LORD HERSCHELL AS LORD CHANCELLOR.

done nothing for the Liberal party got the
judgeship.

“ Cohen at least oughtn’t to be sur¬
prised,” said one of the wittiest judges
still in ermine. u He would know that
he could not expect anything from a Jew
but a passover.”

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR,

543

I once asked the late Sir William

whips Adam, the popular and able
and hats. Liberal Whip of the 1874 Parlia¬
ment, why Whips stand or walk
about the lobby without their hats on. “I
don’t know,” he answered, with Scottish
caution, “ unless it be to keep their heads cool.
That, you know, is a necessary condition of
success in our line of business.”

That a Whip should never wear his hat
whilst the House is in Session is one of
the quaint unwritten laws of Parliament.
Its origin, like the birth of Jeames, is
“ wropt up in a myst’ry.” It probably arose
in the case of some hot-blooded, bustling
Whip, who found head-gear heating. How¬
ever it be, the custom has
reached the status of an
immutable law. It would
not be more surprising to
see the Speaker sitting bare¬
headed in the Chair when
the Mace is on the table
than to find the chief Whips
or any one of their col¬
leagues going about his
business in the lobby with
his hat on.

So intimate is the associa¬
tion of ideas, that when one
day last Session Lord Stal-
bridge looked in and stood
for awhile by the door of
the lobby with his hat on,
old members gasped. It is
many years since Lord Stal-
bridge, then Lord Richard
Grosvenor, acted as Whip.

So abiding are old associa¬
tions that it was not without
a shock he, after long
interval, was observed
wearing his hat in his old
place on guard by the
door, where he had instinctively planted
himself.

THE camel L?, fasc j. natio ? which Plains

OF THE t0 t ie °“ ice °* Whip !S mcom-
HOUSE OF P re hensible to some minds. It

commons. lt’. at best ’ a thankless post. If
things go right in the division
lobby the result is accepted as a matter of
course. If they go wrong, woe to the Whip !
He is the camel of the House of Commons,
doing all the drudgery, taking none of the
honour. Moreover, he is not allowed to
share the privilege of the camel, whose
haughty “ don’t-know-you ” air as it regards
mankind must be some recompense for all

the toil and indignity it suffers. A Whip, on
the contrary, must always be in beaming good
humour. Like Caesar’s wife (according to
the version of the Yorkshire mayor), he must
be all things to all men.

There was in an elder Parlia-
lord ment a well-known exception to

- the rule that enforces equanimity

of temper on the Whip. Many
members of the present House retain
memories of a noble lord, now gathered to
his fathers, who was a terror to evil-doers.
It was the epoch of all-night sittings,
when fathers of families had a yearning
desire to go home not later than one o’clock
in the morning. Seated on the bench by
the lobby door the Whip,
who had been up all the
previous night, might be
forgiven if he dropped
asleep. But he slept with
one eye and one ear
open. The anxious
parent, closely watching
him and timidly making
for the door, never did
more than touch its frame¬
work before a hand was
on his shoulder, and there
rattled in his ear observa¬
tions which seemed quota¬
tions from the conversation
of our army when in
Flanders.

That was an excep¬
tional personal idiosyncrasy,
and the energetic re-
monstrator was not the
Chief Whip. He was
useful in his way. But
his particular method
of address had no prece¬
dent and has not been
imitated.

the prizes '™ 6 ^traction of the Whips’
0F office is certainly not based on

THE whips’ P ecuniai 7 considerations. The
room Patronage Secretary has a salary

of ^2,000 a year, his colleagues,
who rank as Junior Lords of the Treasury,
receiving half that sum. When their party is
out of office, the Whips, with very nearly as
much work to do, draw no pay. It is true
that the Whips’ room is the rarely failing
avenue to higher Ministerial office. In two
recent cases, that of Mr. Brand and Mr. Peel,
it led to the Speaker’s Chair and a peerage.
Mr. Arnold Morley was made Postmaster-
General, Sir. William Dyke became Vice-

ON GUARD—SIR WILLIAM WALROND,
CHIEF CONSERVATIVE WHIP.

544

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

President of the Council, his colleague, Mr.
Rowland Wynn, being made a peer. The
present First Commissioner of Works was
long time Conservative Whip. The late
Colonel Taylour was
made Chancellor of the
Duchy of Lancaster.

The long services of
Sir William Adam
received niggardly re¬
ward by appointment
to the Governorship of
Madras.

In former times the
Chief Government
Whip, who still retains
the style of Patronage
Secretary, had a multi¬
tude of good things to
give away. Beginning
his career fifty years ago,
and not having his steps
directed towards the
Woolsack, the Patron¬
age Secretaryship would
have just suited Lord
Halsbury. Now the
Patronage Secretaryship
is, like friendship, “but a name.” The Chief
Whip has nothing in his wallet for hungry
dependents, or for influential constituents—
not even a tide-waitership or a country post¬
mastership. Nevertheless the post of Whip
continues to wield potent fascination for
young, active, and ambitious members of the
House. It is a life of constant, in the main,
obscure drudgery, rarely illumined, as it
happily was last Session, by the flash of
silver cigar caskets and the sheen of golden
match-boxes.

The great gilt instrument that
the rests upon the table of the
mace. House of Commons, when the

Speaker is in the Chair, is the
third of its race. The first that lives in
history has no birth-date. But its disappear-

at spectacle of a symbol, put the Mace in the
melting-pot and the proceeds of the trans¬
action in his pocket. However it be, the
first Mace was seen in its resting-place on
such and such a day
and, like ships posted
up at Lloyd’s, has not
since been heard of.

When Cromwell came
into power, and Parlia¬
mentary proceedings
were resumed, he
ordered another Mace
to be made. This lives
in history as the bauble
which, later, Cromwell
himself ordered to be
taken away. His com¬
mand was literally
obeyed. The second
Mace was so effectu¬
ally removed that, like
the first, it was never
more seen or heard of.

The Mace which now
glistens on the table of
the House of Commons,
and is carried before
the Speaker when he visits the House
of Lords, is of considerable antiquity. It
was made in 1660, on the restoration of
Charles II. It is watched over with infinite
care, being through the Session in personal
charge of the Serjeant-at-Arms. During the
recess it is, as was the wont and usage of
traitors in olden times, committed to the
Tower, where it is guarded as not the least
precious among the jewels of the Crown.

Whilst Lord Peel was yet
“ gone to Speaker of the House of Com-
jamaica.” mons, he, from information re¬
ceived, was momentarily flushed
with hope that Cromwell’s Mace had been
discovered in Jamaica. Diligent inquiry on
the spot blighted this hope. It turned out
that there are two Maces in the Colony, but

THE LATE MR. T. E. ELLIS—CHIEF LIBERAL WHIP.

THE MACE OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

ance is authoritatively recorded. On or
about the very day when Charles I. lost his
head on the scaffold, the Mace of the House
of Commons disappeared. Probably some
stern Roundhead, his Puritanic gorge rising

they are comparatively modern, dating from
the uninteresting Georgian period. One, like
the lamp-posts in the neighbourhood of St.
James’s Palace, has stamped on its head the
initials “ G. R.” There is the date-mark,

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR.

545

1 753-4. The other is stamped with the
King’s head, and the date-mark 1757-8. Both
are silver gilt.

The Speaker’s inquiries brought to light
the interesting fact that Jamaica at one time
possessed a Mace presented to the Colony by
Charles II. Doubtless it was ordered at the
same time as the one at present in the House
of Commons. It cost nearly ^,80, and was
conveyed to Jamaica by Lord Windsor, the
first Governor commissioned by Charles II.
By an odd coincidence this Mace also dis¬
appeared. In 1672 Jamaica suffered one of
its not infrequent earthquakes. Parliament
House was amongst the many public buildings
in Port Royal that were engulfed. It is
believed that King Charles’s Mace went down
with the rest. However it be, like Cromwell’s
bauble, it has vanished from human ken.

Referring to a recent note
baptism about a member of the
by present House of Com-
immersion. 1110ns, originally a clergy¬
man of the Church of
England, who inadvertently united a
blushing bride with the best man
instead of with the bridegroom, an¬
other member writes to remind me of
even a worse case of absent-minded¬
ness. The reverend gentleman in this
case was George Dyer, an intimate
friend of Charles Lamb. Early in his
career he did duty as a Baptist minister,
his ministration being on the whole
not unattended with success. One
day, performing the rite of baptism by
total immersion, he fell into a train of
profound thought, meanwhile holding
an old woman under water till she
was drowned.

This led to some unpleasantness,
and Mr. Dyer retired from the ministry.

But he never overcame his proneness to
absent-mindedness. One night, on leaving
Charles Lamb’s hospitable house, he walked
straight ahead out of the front door and
strode plump into the New River.

Lord Rath more has many good
stories. One, not the worst, is
autobiographical. Shortly after
he was raised to the peerage he
took a trip to the Riviera. The
French railway company, desirous to do
honour to a distinguished English confrere,
reserved a carriage for his private use. He
made the most of the opportunity, getting a
good sleep shortly after leaving Paris on the
journey south. At some unknown hour of
the night, at some unrecognised station, the

Vol. xvii.—69.

door of the carriage was suddenly opened.
A lantern was flashed upon him, and a voice
sharply cried, “ Votre nom ? ”

Lord Rathmore, wakened out of his sleep,
looking up in a partly dazed condition, dis¬
covered a railway official on his way round
for tickets. Lord Rathmore’s name was on
the paper affixed to the window, marking the
compartment as reserved. The official, in
performance of his duty, and with that pas¬
sion for regularizing everything which besets
Frenchmen in uniform, merely desired to
identify the occupant of the carriage with the
person to whose use it was inscribed.

“ Votre nom ? ” he sternly repeated, seeing
the passenger hesitate.

In response there sprang to Lord Rath-
more’s lips the familiar “ David Plunket.”
Happily he remembered in time that he was

THE PRE¬
DICAMENT
OF A NEW
PEER.

‘what on earth is my name?”

no longer David Plunket, but for the life of
him, wakened out of his sleep, and thus
abruptly challenged, he could not remember
what title in the peerage he had selected.

Here was a pickle ! Anyone familiar with
the arbitrary ways of the French railway
official will know what would have happened
supposing the passenger had confessed that
he really didn’t know his own name. Cold
sweat bedewed the forehead a coronet had
not yet pressed. The new peer began to
regret more bitterly than ever that he had
left the House of Commons. The interval
seemed half an hour. Probably it was only
half a minute before recollection of his new
name surged back upon him, and he hurriedly
but gratefully pronounced it.

By John Oxenham.

Author of “ God s Prisonerf etc ., etc.

years in which he himself went to the City.
Not that he had ever been in the habit of
racing for his train in that fashion. He
was far too methodical for that. But to
thoroughly enjoy one’s breakfast one must
have a mind absolutely at peace with the
world and free from care, and he is a lucky
business man who has that nowadays.

As he sauntered down the road one morn¬
ing he stopped to read once more a bill
elevated on a board in his next-door neigh¬
bour’s garden, which announced the sale of
the furniture of the house, and, as he read,
his neighbour came out hastily on his way
to the City.

“ Morning, Cherry ! ” he cried, jovially.

Mr. Cherriton was always “ Cherry ” to
everyone, and always had been. The name
so obviously fitted the cheerful little round
red and white face, and the little round
button of a nose. He was Cherry to the
life, and nobody ever thought of calling him
anything else.

“ Morning, Cherry ! You and Mrs.
Cherry coming in to-day to look over things ? ”
He was or had been something in or about
Throgmorton Street, but had somehow made
a mess of things, and was selling off his
household goods preparatory to a fresh start.
He was jovial in manner and irregular in his

R. CHARLES CHERRITON
was a gentleman of indepen¬
dent means, and—until he
bought that cabinet—of un¬
limited leisure. But when once
he possessed that cabinet—or
the cabinet possessed him—it took up a con¬
siderable amount of his time.

For forty years Mr. Cherriton had been
something in the City, and had gone in and
out and done his many duties with the
regularity of an American timepiece. Then,
having laid by a certain sum during many
years of modest living, he claimed his
pension from the bank and retired with
Mrs. Cherriton to the tranquil delights of
suburbandom.

There one of his peculiar pleasures was to
stroll about of a morning* in slippers, with a
pipe, reading his newspaper and watching his
neighbours play havoc with their internal
machinery by rushing frantically for their
trains, with their little handbags in their
hands, and the fag-ends of their breakfasts
still in their throats, and their hastily-lighted
cigars or cigarettes wasting fruitlessly in the
wind of their going. Then Mr. Cherriton
would saunter into the house and sit down
opposite Mrs. Cherriton and enjoy his break¬
fast as he never had done during those forty

THE CA * * * * T CAME EACH.

547

habits, going down at any time of day and
coming home at any hour of the night or
morning.

“Say, old man ! there’s a thing you might
do for me,” he said, confidentially, pointing
to one big line in the bill : “ that buhl
cabinet was my wife’s father’s. It’s a real
beauty—worth ^40 if it’s worth a penny.
The auctioneer was in last night, just to get
an idea of things, don’t you know, and he
said he’d rarely come across a handsomer
piece. He said the last one he sold wasn’t
in half as good condition, and he got ^35
for it. Some of the Jew dealers have got
wind of this. They’ve been asking him
about it, and you know how those fellows
do—make their own price and get all the
plunder. Now, it’d be a mighty neighbourly
thing of you, Cherry, if you’d look in
to-morrow when the sale’s on, and just put
a spoke in their wheels if they’re up to any
tricks.”

“ How do you mean ? ” asked Mr. Cherri-

we certainly don’t, and we’re not going to
buy one. Clemow’s afraid the Jews may get
it at a break-up price, ^5 or so. He was just
asking me to bear a hand to-morrow, and
poke them up if they’re up to any tricks.”

Mrs. Cherriton shook her head doubtfully.
“If you don’t take care you’ll find you’ve
bought it.”

“ Oh, I’ll see to that all right. I feel a bit
sorry for Clemow. He’s a bright, smart
fellow, but he’s got left somehow.”

Mrs. Cherriton’s wise head shook again.
“I wish he would remember that decent
people are generally asleep at three o’clock
in the morning, and if he must drive home
all the way from town, I wish he wouldn’t
quarrel with the cabman just outside our
gate. I’m sure the neighbours thought it
was you.”

“ He’d been to a smoker at the Holborn
and missed his train, and the man thought
he was drunk and wanted to overcharge
him.”

make it good
you. I’d hate

ton.

“ Why, if you see they’re trying to get it
for ^5 or so, just bid it up a bit. They’ll
not let it slip, never you fear. But if you
should get left on it, why, I’ll take it off your
hands and sell it again, and if there’s any
loss, of course I’ll
to
to

see it go for less
than Eiz or -£20.”

“Well, maybe
we’ll look in during
the day,” said Mr.

Cherriton, and
went in to enjoy
his breakfast.

“Jane,” he said
to his wife, “ we’ll
go in next door
during the day and
just take a look at
their things.

Clemow says that
cabinet named in
the advertisement
is worth ^40.”

“Really,” said
Mrs. Cherriton; “I
shouldn’t have
thought they had
anything worth
^40. But we don’t
want a ^£40 cab¬
inet, Charles.”

“No, my dear,

“ I don’t suppose the man was very far
wrong,” said Mrs. Cherriton.

During the day Mr. and Mrs. Cherriton
went in next door, and they were surprised
at the beauty of the buhl cabinet. It was a
massive ebony affair, inlaid with red tortoise¬
shell and delicate yellow metal work, and
seemed very much out of place among the
rest of the Clemow furniture.
One of the auctioneer’s men
on duty there, seeing them
admiring it, offered the

“it OUGHT TO FETCH A MATTER OF £20 OR MORE.”

54-8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

remark that that was as handsome a piece as
he’d seen for many a day, and it ought to
fetch a matter of £20 or more. Several
greasy individuals who were shuffling about
sniffed disparagingly when they heard this,
and Mr. Cherriton’s instinct told him they
were Jew dealers in search of plunder.

The sale was to commence at twelve
o’clock precisely, and a quarter of an hour
before that time found Mr. and Mrs. Cherriton
seated in the room where the selling was to
take place, waiting for it to begin, Mrs.
Cherriton having come, of course, to see that
Mr. Cherriton did not make a fool of him¬
self. There were more people there than
they had expected to find, and they mostly
sat in gloomy silence, eyeing one another
askance, and wondering how much any of
the others would be likely to give for the
particular article they themselves were after.
The professional element, however, amused
itself in its own way with many reminiscences
of bygone auctions, and much pointed and
personal chaff, and with spasmodic jokes
whose humour was hidden from the world.

The time dragged slowly on, and the
auctioneer did not come. The atmosphere
of desecration, the general gloom, the jarring,
incomprehensible jokes, all reminded Mr.
Cherriton of an inquest he had once had to
attend. The auctioneer’s men went out to look
up and down the road for his coming, and the
gloom inside deepened each time they returned.

It was after one before the auctioneer put
in an appearance and climbed up on to the
table, on which another smaller table and a
chair had been placed for his use. He began
rapidly handing out catalogues, and then
briskly announced “Lot 1.”

The cabinet was Lot 99, but the auctioneer,
having once made a start, proved himself a
man of parts and rattled away at a great rate.

By two o’clock, however, both Mr. and
Mrs. Cherriton were beginning to feel hungry,
and at last Mr. Cherriton insisted on his wife
slipping out to get something to eat, while
he stayed to keep an eye on the sale.

The room was so full that she had some
difficulty in getting out, and it was only the
knowledge that her husband must be starving
inside that made her force her way back to
where he sat. The other people got some¬
what annoyed at these comings and goings,
and grumblingly asked if they knew whether
they wanted to be there or not, and urged
them to keep to the right if they must use
that room as a promenade.

When Mr. Cherriton struggled out the
auctioneer was vaunting the merits of Lot

No. 55—“ Massive mahogany sideboard ;
wood alone worth £10; you don’t see much
work like that nowadays, gentlemen ; any¬
thing over two pounds? Two pounds only
bid for the massive,” etc., etc.—and it seemed
to Mr. Cherriton that he would have ample
time to supply the void which was painfully
apparent inside of him, and to get back long
before Lot 99 was reached.

When he did get back, however, the
auctioneer’s foreman was shouting at the
front door, “Lot 99 now selling, genelmen.
Eb’ny bull cabinet now selling,” and when
he saw Mr. Cherriton he said, “You’re agoin’
to miss that there cabinet unless you look
sharp, sir. There’s them inside as wants it
and knows its value. Here y’are. Stand
there. He can see you here all right.—
Lot 99 now selling, genelmen. Massive bull
eb’ny cabinet now selling.”

“ Five pounds is all I am offered for this
unique piece of furniture. Is there any
advance 011^5 ? ” said the auctioneer, whom
Cherriton could just see over the heads of the
crowd. “ Come, gentlemen, we wish to sell;
but to mention ^5—guineas, thank you !
Five guineas—any advance on five guineas ?
—to mention such a sum as five guineas in
connection with such a piece of furniture as
this is simply—five-ten! five-ten ! any advance
on five pounds ten ?—five-fifteen—six pounds.
It’s against you, sir !—six-ten, thank you !—
worth* twenty pounds of any man’s money—
six-fifteen—seven pounds—seven pounds
—guineas—seven guineas—any advance on
seven guineas ?—and a half—seven-seventeen-
six—eight pounds,” and so on, bit by bit,
till the cabinet stood at ^12, and Cherry
glowed with satisfaction at the way he had
poked up those rascally dealers and benefited
his friend Clemow.

He was half inclined to go on and run it
up to ^20, for it was evident that the value
of the cabinet was known, and if it was worth
a dealer’s while to give £12 for it, it was
probably worth anybody else’s to do the
same. Cherry got quite excited over it.
He was not used to auctions, and this one
had got into his head. There couldn’t be
much risk in it, anyhow—especially since
Clemow had undertaken to relieve him of it
if he got stuck. So he flung out an intrepid
nod at the auctioneer, and the auctioneer
made it guineas, and then, somewhat to
Cherry’s dismay, the hammer fell and the
cabinet was his — “ and absolutely given
away at the price,” said the auctioneer,
soothingly, as he gave in his name and paid
his deposit.

THE CA * * * * T CAME BACK

549

Mr. Cherriton lost interest in the sale after
that, and wandered outside to wonder, some¬
what tardily, if Clemow were to be relied
upon to keep his promise.

When the sale was over he felt inclined to
take a walk rather than meet Mrs. C. He
knew exactly the kind of told-you-so look of
gentle reproach with which she would meet
him. And she did. She was very quiet
during tea, and it was not until his first
feeling of discomfort was beginning to wear
off under the soothing influence of his second
pipe, that she said :—

“ Charles, do you know I’m very much
afraid you and I were bidding against one
another all the time ? I couldn’t see who it
was. Where were you ? ”

“ I was just inside the door, towards the
right. It was at
when I got back.

How did he get
through so quick ? ”

“ Some of the lots
were struck out,
whatever that
means, and there
were some numbers
with nothing to
them. Then I’m
pretty sure it was
you. How very
silly ! ”

“ Oh, never mind,
my dear. Clemow
will take it off our
hands, and after all
we were trying to do
him a good turn.”

But Mrs. Cherri¬
ton shook her head
somewhat dubi¬
ously, as though she
did not pin much
faith to the promise of a man who drove
home from town at three o’clock in the
morning and roused the neighbours by
wrangling with the cabman at somebody else’s
front gate.

The following day Mr. Cherriton had to
pay the balance of the purchase-money and
remove the cabinet, and as it would not fit
in with the rest of the furniture in the
Cherriton drawing-room, and as moreover it
was likely—they sincerely hoped so, at all
events—to be taken away at a moment’s
notice by Mr. Clemow, according to promise,
they decided to send it to a local furniture
dealer’s to be stored.

But day after day passed, and no word

came from Clemow. Cherry wrote to his
office address. The letter came back in
due course, marked “ Gone—no address.”

In desperation Cherry consulted with the
local furniture man.

“ I’ll manage it for you, Mr. Cherriton.
I’ve a sale on myself at the ‘Elms,’ next
week—you know, that big house corner of
the Avenue. It’ll sell there, you bet. I
shouldn’t be a bit surprised if you got ^20
for it. It’s a very fine piece indeed—a very
fine piece. It’s been much admired since
I’ve had it here. I’ve got a first-rate man
coming down from London to do the selling,
and there’ll be a lot of good-class people
there.”

Cherry went home in high spirits. If he
could get £20 for the cabinet that would

be a turning of the tables on the faithless
Clemow, and even on Mrs. Cherriton, who
could not forget that it was Cherry himself
who ran the price up, and got caught at the
top, quite forgetting that if he had not been
caught she herself must have been.

He decided to say nothing about the possi¬
bility of getting £20 for it, but simply men¬
tioned that he had arranged with Newton
to include it in the forthcoming sale at the
“ Elms.”

“ And I sincerely hope that’ll be the last
of it,” said Mrs. Cherriton.

The sale at the “ Elms ” attracted a large
crowd, and Cherry’s hopes ran high. That
^20 and the pleasure of announcing it were

55 °

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

his in anticipation before even the auctioneer
climbed up on to his table.

The cabinet was described in large type,
and when he came to it the auctioneer
emphasized all that had been said, and added
to it, and Cherry glowed with satisfaction and
expectation.

“ Now, gentlemen,” said the auctioneer,
“what shall we start at? That cabinet is
worth every penny of ^40. Shall we say
twenty to start with ? Twenty pounds—any
advance on twenty ? Oh, well, anything you
like, only please make a start. Ten pounds
—thank you, sir !—quarter of its value, as no
one knows better than yourself; still, it’s a
start. Ten pounds, gentlemen, for this
splendid piece of furniture—any advance on
ten pounds ?—guineas, thank you—ten—
eleven pounds—in two places—guineas—
thank you—eleven guineas I am offered—
any advance on eleven guineas ?—twelve
pounds—it is against you, sir—shall I make
it guineas? — yes? Thank you—twelve
guineas—twelve guineas only offered for this
unique cabinet—come, gentlemen—it was
never made for several times that amount
—well, one can’t spend the whole day on
it. Is there any advance on twelve guineas ?
— going for twelve guineas — thirteen —
thirteen — thirteen-ten — fourteen-ten — four¬
teen pounds and ten shillings—fifteen—

fifteen—fifteen-ten-”

Mr. Cherriton was bursting with excite¬
ment. That £20 was as good as in his
pocket. These people evidently knew the

proper value of the cabinet—his cabinet—he
was proud of his connection with it—it
couldn’t do any harm to help it on a bit.

“ Sixteen pounds,” said the auctioneer, in
answer to his nod.

He was hot all over at his own temerity
in taking the plunge—but he was not going
to let that twenty pounds run away for the
lack of a little assistance.

“ Sixteen-ten — seventeen — seventeen—
seventeen pounds only bid—any advance on
seventeen pounds ? — seventeen-ten, thank
you ! — seventeen-ten — eighteen — eighteen
pounds — eighteen-ten — nineteen—nineteen
—nineteen—nineteen-ten—twenty pounds !
any advance on twenty pounds ?—twenty
pounds only bid for this most beautiful
cabinet—any advance on twenty pounds ?—
going for twenty pounds — going if no
advance on twenty pounds—gone ! Name,
sir, if you please ? ”

“ Cherriton,” said that gentleman, feebly,
feeling as if he would like to lie down and
die.

“ Cherrystones ? ” asked the auctioneer,
doubtfully ; “ perhaps you will be so good as
to hand your card to the clerk, sir, and he
will take the deposit.”

Mr. Cherriton crept into his own house
and was met by his hopeful wife. “Well,
Charles, is the horrid thing sold ? ”

“ Yes—it’s sold ! ” he said, sinking de¬
jectedly into a chair. “ Give me a cup of tea,
Jane.”

“And it only fetched about ^5,” said his

NAME, SIR, IF YOU PLEASE?

THE CA * * * * T CAME BACK.

55i

wife, sympathizingly. “Well, never mind,
dear, it’s off your mind, anyhow, and I know
it’s been worrying you dreadfully, and if ever
you catch that horrid Mr. Clemow, you must
make him pay the difference.”

“ It sold for £20 ! ” said Cherry, making a
bolt of it.

“Oh, Charles ! ” and Mrs. Cherriton clasped
her hands in delight. “ And who bought it ?
And will he ever pay for it ? Could anybody
be so foolish as to actually pay £20 for it ?
Who was it ? ”

“It was me,” said Cherry, grimly.

“ Oh, Charles ! ” cried Mrs. Cherriton.

“Yes,” said Cherry, anticipatingly, “there
are a great many fools in the world, but I’m
about the biggest.”

Mrs. Cherriton said nothing.

The cabinet returned to its retreat at
Newton’s.

Then there came another first-rate chance
in Aiding itself, and, by arrangement, Cherry
had the cabinet inserted in the usual big type
in the catalogue, and in the advertisements
of the sale.

He attended it in person, and to his huge
delight the bidding was brisk without any
assistance from him, and at last the hammer
fell at . £15.

“Thank Heaven! it’s gone at last,” he
announced in answer to his wife’s appre¬
hensive look as he came into the house.
“ Fifteen pounds, my dear, so we shall come
out about clear after all; not quite, perhaps,
but not far off, and we’ve had all the fun and
excitement of the thing.”

“ Fun ! ” said Mrs. Cherriton. “ It’s not
been my idea of fun at all. But I’m very
thankful it’s gone at last.”

“ So’rn I,” said Cherry. “ Clever man,
that auctioneer. He just fairly talked their
heads off. But, you see, I was right after
all, and the cabinet was well worth what I
gave for it.”

Next day, however, when he called
round at the shop of the man who had
the sale in hand, he was stupefied at
being told :—

“I’m real sorry about that cabinet, Mr.
Cherriton. You see, auctioneers have to do
that kind of thing sometimes. They have
to pretend they get bids, you see, and some¬
times they get left.”

“ Why, what do you mean ? ”

“It was his own bid, don’t you see, and so
it’s left on our hands. They do it for the
good of the sale, and you can’t say anything
against it. Sometimes it comes off, some¬
times it don’t.”

“I call it a swindle,” said Cherry, with
vehemence.

“Just one of the tricks of the trade,” said
the man.

“ That’s only another name for a swindle.
Well, what’s to be done ? ”

“ He told me to tell you he’d got a good
sale on down in West Kensington next week,
and if you cared to send it there he was
pretty sure he could get a matter of £20 for
it. He says it’s well worth forty.”

“ Yes, I’ve heard all that before,” said
Cherry. “ I’m getting tired of hearing it.
Well,” after some sulky consideration, “ you’d
better send it, and tell him I want it sold.”

He determined to go and see the last of
the cabinet, and as he started :—

“Now, Charles, dear, let me beg of you—
don’t bid yourself, let somebody else have
it.”

“ I won’t open my mouth till I get back,”
said Cherry.

It was a very fine house, and the auctioneer
was not the same one who had been out to
Arling. This was the head of the firm, a man
of eminence in his profession, who only
handled the hammer on special occasions.
He was sharp and dictatorial in his ways, and
stood no nonsense. Cherry heard him knock
off the various lots at what seemed to him
very high prices, and his spirits rose.

He reached the cabinet at last, and
described it in the usual eulogistic terms,
which Cherry had all off by heart, and was
thoroughly sick of hearing.

“ Now, gentlemen, what shall we say ?
Start it somebody, please. I value this
piece at ^40. Shall we say twenty to begin
with?” Cherry’s spirits went up into his
head. “ There’s rather a run on these buhl
cabinets just now, and this is as handsome
a one as I’ve come across for a long time.
The last one we sold brought—how much
was it, James ? ” to his clerk. “ Ah, yes,
£15., and it wasn’t a patch on this one.
Come, gentlemen, make a start ! I can’t
sit here all day while you make up your
minds you don’t want any bargains. Fifteen
for a start—very well—fifteen—fifteen—any
advance on fifteen ?—fifteen-ten—sixteen—
sixteen-ten—seventeen—and a half—seven¬
teen-ten —eighteen—eighteen-ten-” and

so on, and so on, just as it was in the habit
of ringing through Cherry’s head in the
wakeful early mornings, till he couldn’t lie
still for it all.

The cabinet was skilfully manipulated up
to £ 2 5 > an d Cherry’s eyes were fairly hanging
out with satisfaction. Why didn’t the man

552

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

knock it down and make sure of it ? Twenty-
five pounds ! Why, there would be a clear
ten pounds’ profit after leaving a fair margin
for all the annoyance and worry. Why
couldn’t he drop that hammer and end it ?

The auctioneer looked inquiringly at him.
The auctioneer simply couldn’t help it, he
seemed so excited and interested.

“ He wants to know if he shall let it go at
the price,” said Cherry to himself. “ Yes, man,
yes, sell it and be d—done with it ! ” and he
nodded vigorously in his excitement.

“Twenty-five-ten!” said the auctioneer,
inflexibly, “ any advance on twenty-five
pounds ten ?—for the last time—twenty-five
pounds ten—going—going—gone 1 ”

“ Name, sir, if you please ? ” he said,
pointing his hammer at Cherry and almost
knocking him over by that simple action.

“ I—I—I-” said the amazed Cherry.

“Your name, sir!—if—you—please. My
clerk will take your deposit. Now, sir,
come, you are retarding the sale.”

“ Damnation ! ” said Cherry, in lieu of
bursting. “ Cherriton.”

“ Cherrystones, Sam, it sounded like,”
said the auctioneer to his clerk. “ Perhaps
you will send up your card, sir. Next lot ! ”

“ Why,” said a stout lady standing by the
door, just as Cherry made his miserable way
out, “ that’s the same Mr. Cherrystones as
bought a buhl cabinet at Arling the other
day. I’ve seen him myself buy at least half-
a-dozen. He must be in a big way, for
they're not things that sell quick. Who is
he?”

Cherry almost feared to go home. He
felt much more inclined to wander away into
the desert and bury himself in the mud and
pass away and be forgotten.

“ Killed by a buhl cabinet,” would be the
inscription on his tombstone, if ever they
found his body, and he smiled grimly to him¬
self to think how it would excite the wonder¬
ing comment of future generations. And
so, having come to himself, he went home
and told Mrs. Cherriton that the cabinet was
still unsold.

When he opened the daily paper next
morning his horror-stricken eye fell on this
paragraph, and he read it at least a dozen
times in a dazed kind of way :—

“We all of us have young friends who
collect postage-stamps—we have probably all
been guilty of the offence, if it be one, in
our youth. We most of us know—to our
cost, maybe — people who collect auto¬
graphs, or coins, or crests. We hear of
individuals whose chief gratification in

life is the acquisition of fans — or pipes,
or medals, or similar easily-stowed-away
articles. But there is an eccentric person
down Arling way, who possesses the eccentric
name of Cherrystones, and whose little hobby
is the collection of—buhl cabinets ! The
acquisition of these massive and costly articles
of furniture is a positive monomania with
the eccentric Cherrystones. He buys every¬
one that is offered, and is said to have now
the finest and largest collection in this
country, and he is still constantly adding
to it. Is the eccentric Mr. Cherrystones
simply a collector from motives of pleasure,
we wonder, or is he an extremely far-sighted
individual looking forward to the time—
probably not so very far distant—when
buhl cabinets will be in again, and good
specimens will reach fancy prices, and Mr.
Cherrystones’ acumen will be rewarded ? ”
(Then followed a learned dissertation on buhl
cabinets.) “ Meanwhile the prices of buhl
cabinets are stiffening—the one at the Burton
sale in West Kensington yesterday went for
over ^25—to Mr. Cherrystones—and if any
one of our readers happens to be the possessor
of an unusually fine specimen, we advise him
to stick to it till the eccentric Mr. Cherry¬
stones comes along with his bottomless purse
in his hand and makes an adequate offer for
it.”

Cherry folded up the paper when he had
thoroughly assimilated that hideous para¬
graph, and placed it inside his waistcoat and
went up to the City, and called on his
lawyer, who was a very old friend of his.
He showed him the objectionable paragraph,
and stated his intention of issuing a writ for
libel against the paper for holding him up to
scorn, ridicule, and contempt.

. “ But what’s it all about ? ” asked his

friend.

“It’s all a lie,” said Cherry.

“ But have you been buying buhl cabinets?”

“Yes, I have”—and then he told the
whole story from beginning to end, and,
before'he was through, his friend, who had
humorous points about him, lay down flat in
his chair to laugh, and felt like lying down
on the hearth-rug.

“Well, have I a case?” asked Cherry,
when his friend was in a condition to be
spoken to again.

“ Oh, yes, you’ve got any amount of a
case, Cherry. But you can’t possibly fight it.
Your defence is infinitely funnier than the
original libel.”

“ I don’t see any fun in the original libel.”

“ The whole thing’s too funny to speak of.

THE CA * * * * T CAME BACK.

553

climate is good for pur-

’ said
but I

“his friend lay down flat in his chair to laugh.”

My advice, old man, is to get rid of that
collection of cabinets, and retire into private
life."

The following day an elderly gentleman of
mild and benevolent appearance called at
Mr. Cherriton’s house and asked to see Mr.

Cherriton. Cherry walked into the drawing¬
room, where he was waiting.

Cherrystones ? ” asked the visitor,
sir, Cherriton," said Cherry,

Mr.
blandly.

“ Cherriton,
irritably.

“ Ah ! but, all the same, the gentleman
who is collecting buhl cabinets. I have
called, Mr. Cherry st—Cherriton, to ask if
you will accord me the favour of a sight of
those famous cabinets-"

“ I do not collect cabinets, sir. You have
been misinformed."

“I know, I know—I quite understand,
Mr. Cherrysto—Cherriton. I know just how
you feel. I, too, am a collector in a more
humble sphere. My speciality is purdoniums.
If at any time-"

“ My dear sir, I tell you it is all a mistake.
I have no buhl cabinets—at least-"

“ At least ? "

“ None I can show you," said Cherry,
getting angry at his persistence. “I ship
them all to Central America for safety as
soon as I buy them."

“ Really ! How very extraordinary ! Do

Vol. xvii.—70.

you know if that
doniums ? "

“ Haven’t any idea what they are,
Cherry, leading the way to the door; ‘
shouldn’t think it would be."

“ Not know a purdonium !" said the old
gentleman, and
then Cherry closed
the door.

Ten different
visitors came that
day to see the col-
lection of buhl
cabinets, and were
all sent empty
away. The servant
who had been with
them twenty-seven
years threatened
to leave if this
kind of thing
went on, for the
callers, all being
collectors of one
thing or another,
were extremely
pertinacious, and
would not take “ No " for an answer.

Next day Cherry wrote out a neat notice
and pinned it under the knocker :—

“ Mr. Cherriton is away from home. His
collections are not on view."

Then he and Mrs. Cherriton went away to
Richmond for the day, leaving old Margaret
to repel the enemy. They returned in some
trepidation as to what might have happened
in their absence, and had to go round to the
back before they could get in.

“ Thought you were some more of them
cranks," said Margaret; “ that knocker’s been
going all day like a blacksmith’s shop, and
never once have I opened the door to any one
of them. When they got tired they went away."

For several days visitors kept coming to
ask if they could see the famous collection,
and then Cherry hired a cart and went with
it to the furniture shop where the cabinet was
enjoying a well-earned rest, and had it loaded
on to the cart.

There was murder in his eye.

“ I’ve a sale on next week, Mr. Cherriton,"
said the furniture man, “ out at Banwell. If
you like to try that cabinet-"

“ It’s not a cabinet," snapped Cherry, “ it’s
a nightmare, and I’m going to dispose of it
myself."

_ He had it carried down to the bottom of
his back garden, and then he got the wood-
chopper.

554

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

He was eyeing the nightmare with male¬
volent regret, preparatory to planting the first
blow, when a man came hastily down the
path with Margaret at his heels.

Margaret was expostulating at the way he
had slipped past her and gone through the
house, “ as if you was the landlord or a man
in possession,” said she.

“ Yesh, my tear, yesh, thad’s all ridght. Is
dthis Misder Gherrystones ? Shtop, my tear
sir, shtop! Holy Moshesh! Whad you
going to do ? ”

“ I’m.going to chop it in pieces and burn
it with fire.”

“ Whad for ? ”

“ Because—because there’s a curse on it,”
said Cherry.

“ I’d take id away, gurse an’ all, if you
bay the garbage.”

“No, you won’t. I’m going to

burn it.”

“ Shtop ! shtop ! ” cried the visitor again,
as Cherry selected his spot and raised his
chopper. “ Shtop ! I gif you one pound,
and bay the garriage myself.”

“ I wouldn’t let you have it for ten pounds,”
said Cherry, excitedly. “ I tell you I’m
going to smash it and burn it.”

“I gif you eleven,” moaned the other,
wringing his hands as the chopper rose again.
“ Twelf ! ” he cried ; “ I gif you twelf and
bay the garriage, and dtake it
ridght away, gurse an’ all.”

“ Make it guineas ! ” said Cherry.

“ Moshesh and Aaron ! All
right—guineas ! ”

“ Let’s see your money,” said
Cherry.

The visitor counted out twelve
sovereigns and
twelve shillings
on to the top of
the cabinet, and
Cherry threw
down the chop¬
per.

“Take it
away ! ” he said,
with an “ Off-
with-his - head ”
tone and man¬

ner.

He laid out
the twelve sov¬
ereigns and the
twelve shillings
in a row in
front of his

wife, and she said, “Thank goodness, it’s
gone ! ”

Three days later a paragraph appeared in
the Daily Telegraph to the following effect:—
“ Last week we informed our readers that
buhl cabinets were likely soon to be in vogue
again. Mr. Bernstein, the well-known dealer
of Wardour Street, has just effected the pur¬
chase of an unusually fine specimen for
Baron Louis de Beaumont. The price
paid, we understand, was fifty guineas.
Possibly our friend Mr. Cherrystones, to
whom we referred in our previous article, was
not so eccentric in his views on buhl cabinets
as some people were inclined to think him.
The cabinet in question, we believe, passed
through Mr. Cherrystones’ hands, and was
regarded by that expert judge as one of the
gems of his collection.”

“ Well, I’m blowed ! ” said Cherry.

A few days later he received the following
from his late neighbour, Clemow :—

“ My Dear Cherry, —I offered to take
that cabinet off your hands if you got stuck
with it, and I have been waiting to hear
from you on the subject. I understand you
have now disposed of it at a good profit,
and so will be glad if you will remit my half
share of same to above address.—Yours
truly, A. G. D. Clemow.”

“ Well, I am blowed ! ” said Cherry.

‘ ‘ MAKE IT GUINEAS ! ’ SAID CHERRY.”

In Nature's Workshop.

V.—SOME STRANGE NURSERIES.
By Grant Allen.

OU could hardly find a better
rough test of relative develop¬
ment in the animal (or vege¬
table) world than the number
of young produced and the
care bestowed upon them.
The fewer the offspring, the higher the type.
Very low animals turn out thousands of eggs
with reckless profusion ; but they let them
look after themselves, or be devoured by
enemies, as chance will have it. The higher
you go in the scale of being, the smaller the
families, but the greater the amount of pains
expended upon the rearing and upbringing
of the young. Large broods mean low
organization; small broods imply higher
types and more care in the nurture and
education of the offspring. Primitive kinds
produce eggs wholesale, on the off chance
that some two or three among them may
perhaps survive an infant mortality of 99 per
cent., so as to replace their parents : advanced
kinds produce half-a-dozen young, or less,
but bring a large proportion of these on an
average up to years of discretion.

Without taking into account insects and
such. other small deer, this fundamental
principle of population will become at once
apparent if we examine merely familiar
instances of back - boned or vertebrate
animals. The lowest vertebrates are clearly
the fishes : and fish have almost invariably
gigantic families, especially in the lower
orders of the race. A single cod, for
example, is said to produce, roughly speak¬
ing, nine million eggs at a birth (I cannot
pretend I have checked this calculation);
but supposing they were only a million, and
that one-tenth of those eggs alone ever came
to maturity, there would still be a hundred
thousand codfish in the sea this year for
every pair that swam in it last year: and
these would increase to a hundred thousand
times that number next year: and so on,
till in four or five years’ time the whole sea
would be but one solid mass of closely-
packed cod-banks. We can see for our¬
selves that nothing of the sort actually

occurs—practically speaking, there are about
the same number of cod one year as another.
In spite of this enormous birth-rate, there¬
fore, the cod population is not increasing
—it is at a standstill. What does that
imply ? Why, that taking one brood and
one year with another, only a pair of
cod, roughly speaking, survive to maturity
out of each eight or nine million eggs.
The mother cod lays its millions, in order
that two may arrive at the period of
spawning. All the rest get devoured as eggs,
or snapped up as young fry, or else die of
starvation, or are otherwise unaccounted for.
It seems to us a wasteful way of replenishing
the earth : but it is nature’s way; we can only
bow respectfully to her final decision.

Frogs and other amphibians stand higher
in the scale of life than fish : they have
acquired legs in place of fins, and lungs
instead of gills ; they can hop about on shore
with perfect freedom. Now, frogs still
produce a great deal of spawn, as everyone
knows: but the eggs in each brood are
numbered in their case by hundreds, or at
most by a thousand or two, not by millions
as with many fishes. The spawn hatches out
as a rule in ponds, and we have all seen the
little black tadpoles crowding the edges of
the water in such innumerable masses that
one would suppose the frogs to be developed
from them must cover the length and breadth
of England. Yet what becomes of them all ?
Hundreds are destroyed in the early tadpole
stage—eaten up or starved, or crowded out
for want of air and space and water : a few
alone survive to develop four legs and
absorb their tails and hop on shore as tiny
froglins. Even then the massacre of the
innocents continues: only a tithe of those
which succeed in quitting their native pond
ever return to it full grown to spawn in due
time and become the parents of further
generations.

Lizards and other reptiles make an obvious
advance on the frog type : they lay relatively
few eggs, but they begin to care for their
young: the family is not here abandoned at

55 ^

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

birth, as among frogs, but is frequently
tended and fed and overlooked by the
mother. In birds we have a still higher
development of the same marked parental
tendency ; only three or four eggs are laid
each year, as a rule, and on these eggs the
mother sits, while both parents feed the
callow nestlings till such time as they are
able to take care of themselves and pick up
their own living. Among mammals, which
stand undoubtedly at the head of created
nature, the lower types, like mice and rabbits,
have frequent broods of many young at a
time: but the more advanced groups, such
as the horses, cows, deer, and elephants,
have usually one foal or calf at a birth, and
seldom produce more than a couple. More¬
over, in all these higher cases alike, the young
are fed with milk by the mother, and so
spared the trouble of providing for themselves
in their early days, like the young codfish or
the baby tadpole. Starvation at the outset
is reduced to a minimum.

It is interesting to note, too, that anticipa¬
tions of higher types, so to speak, often occur
among lower races. An animal here and
there among the simpler forms hits upon
some device essentially similar to that of
some higher group with which it is really quite
unrelated. For example, those who have
read my account of the common earwig in a
former number of this Magazine (now repub¬
lished in “ Flashlights on Nature”) will
recollect how that lowly insect sits on her
eggs exactly like a hen, and brings up her
brood of callow grubs as if they were
chickens. In much the same way, anticipa¬
tions of the mammalian type occur pretty
frequently among lower animals. Our
commonest English lizard, for example, which
frequents moors and sandhills, does not lay
or deposit its eggs at all, but hatches them out
in its own body, and so apparently brings them
forth alive: while among snakes, the same
habit occurs in the adder or viper. The very
name viper , indeed, is a corruption of vivipara ,
the snake which produces living young. Still
more closely do some birds resemble mammals
in the habit of secreting a sort of milk for the
sustenance of their nestlings. Most people
think the phrase “ pigeon’s milk” is much
like the phrase “ the horse - marines ” — a
burlesque name for an absurd and impossible
monstrosity. But it is nothing of the sort:
it answers to a real fact in the economy of
certain doves, which eat grain or seeds, grind
and digest it in their own gizzards into a fine
soft pulp or porridge, and then feed their
young with it from their crops and beaks.

This is thus a sort of bird-like imitation of
milk. Only, the cow or the goat takes grass
or leaves, chews, swallows, and digests them,
and manufactures from them in her own
body that much more nutritive substance,
milk, with which all mammals feed their
infant offspring.

Now, after this rather long preamble, I am
going to show you in this present article a
few other examples of special care taken of
the young in certain quarters where it might
be least expected. Fish are not creatures
from which we look for marked domestic
virtues: yet we may find them there abun¬
dantly. Let us begin with that familiar
friend of our childhood, the common English
stickleback.

Which of us cannot look back in youth to
the mysteries of the stickleback fisheries?
Captains courageous, we sallied forth with
bent pin and piece of thread, to woo the
wily quarry with half an inch of chopped
earthworm." For stickleback abound in every
running stream and pond in England. They
are beautiful little creatures, too, when you
come to examine them, great favourites
in the freshwater aquarium; the male in
particular is exquisitely coloured, his hues
growing brighter and his sheen more con¬
spicuous at the pairing season. There are
many species of sticklebacks—in England
we have three very different kinds—but all
are alike in the one point which gives them
their common name, that is to say, in their
aggressive and protective prickliness. They
are armed against all comers. The dorsal
fin is partly replaced in the whole family by
strong spines or “ stickles,” which differ in
number in the different species. One of our
English sorts is a lover of salt water: he
lives in the sea, especially off the Cornish
coast, and has fifteen stickles or spines : on
which account he is commonly known as the
Fifteen-spined Stickleback: our other two
sorts belong to fresher waters, and are known
as the Ten-spined and the Three-spined
respectively.

The special peculiarity of the male stickle¬
back consists in the fact that he is, above all
things, a model father. In his acute sense
of parental responsibility he has few equals.
When spring comes round, he first exhibits
his consciousness of his coming charge by
suddenly enduing himself in a glowing coat
of many colours and of iridescent brilliancy.
That is in order to charm the eyes of his
prospective mate, or rather mates, for I may
as well confess the sad truth at once that
our amiable friend is a good parent but an

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

557

i.— stickleback’s nest : THE mother about to enter.

abandoned polygamist. We all know that
“ In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon
the robin's breast; In the spring the wanton
lapwing gets himself another crest; In the
spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish’d
dove; In the spring a young man’s fancy
lightly turns to thoughts of love.” Not to
be out of the fashion, therefore, the romantic
stickleback does precisely the same thing as
all these distinguished and poetical compeers.
And he does it for the same reason too:
because he wants to get himself an appro¬
priate partner. “There is a great deal of
human nature in man,” it has been said: I
am always inclined to add, “ And there is a
great deal of human nature in plants and
animals.” The more we know of our dumb
relations, the more closely do we realize the
kinship between us. Fish in spring are like
young men at a fair—all eager for the atten¬
tion of their prospective partners.

The first care of the male stickleback,
when he has acquired his courting suit, is to
build a suitable home for his future wives and
children. So he picks up stems of grass and
water-weeds with his mouth, and weaves them
deftly into a compact nest as perfect as a
bird’s, though somewhat different in shape
and pattern. It rather resembles a barrel,
open at both ends, as though the bottom
were knocked out: this form is rendered
necessary because the eggs, when laid, have

to be constantly aerated by passing a current
of water through the nest, as I shall describe
hereafter. No. i shows us such a nest when
completed, with the female stickleback
loitering about undecided as to whether or
not she shall plunge and enter it. You will
observe that the fabric is woven round a
fixed support of some waving water-weeds;
but the cunning little architect does not trust
in this matter to his textile skill alone; he
cements the straws and other materials
together with a gummy mortar of mucous
threads, secreted for the purpose by his
internal organs.

As soon as the building operations are
fully completed, the eager little householder
sallies forth into his pond or brook in search
of a mate who will come and stock his
neatly-built home for him. At this stage
of the proceedings, his wedding garment
becomes even more brilliant and glancing
than ever ; he gleams in silver and changeful
gems : when he finds his lady-love, he dances
round her, “ mad with excitement,” as
Darwin well phrased it, looking his hand¬
somest and best with his lustrous colours
glistening like an opal. If she will listen to
his suit, he grows wild with delight, and
coaxes her into the nest with most affec¬
tionate endearments. In No. 2, as you
perceive, the mate of his choice has been
induced to enter, and is laying her eggs in

2.—THE MOTHER LAYING THE EGGS.

558

THE S TEA HD MAGAZINE,

the dainty home his care has provided for
her. The father fish, meanwhile, dances
and capers around, in a pas de triomphe at
the success of his endeavours.

One wife, however, does not suffice to fill
the nest with eggs : and the stickleback is
a firm believer in the advantages of large
families. So, as soon as his first mate has
laid all her spawn, he sets out once more in
search of another. Thus he goes on until
the home is quite full of eggs, bringing back
one wife after another, in proportion to his
success in wooing and fighting. For, like
almost all polygamists, your stickleback is a
terrible fighter. The males join wager of
battle with one another for possession of
their mates; in their fierce duels they make
fearful use of the formidable spines on their
backs, sometimes entirely ripping up and
cutting to pieces their ill-fated adversary.
The spines thus answer to the spurs of the
game - cock or the
antlers of the deer;
they are masculine
weapons in the
struggle for mates.

Indeed, you may
take it for granted
that brilliant colours
and decorative
adjuncts in animals
almost invariably go
with irascible tem¬
pers, pugnacious
habits, and the prac¬
tice of fighting for
possession of the
harem. The conse¬
quence is, with the
sticklebacks, that
many males get
killed during the
struggle for supre¬
macy, so that the
survivors wed half-a-
dozen wives each,
like little Turks that
they are in their
watery seraglios.

Only the most
beautiful and cour¬
ageous fish succeed
in gaining a harem of their own : and thus
the wager of battle tells in the end for the
advantage of the race, by eliminating the
maimed, the ugly, and the cowardly, and
encouraging the strong, the handsome, the
enterprising, and the valiant. This is nature’s
way of preventing degeneracy.

In No. 3 the nest is seen full of eggs,
and the excellent father now comes out in
his best light as their guardian and protector.
He watches over them with ceaseless care,
freeing them from parasites, and warding off
the attacks of would-be enemies who desire
to devour them, even though the intruder
be several times his own size. The spines
on his back here stand him once more in
good stead : for small as he is, the stickle¬
back is not an antagonist to be lightly
despised: he can inflict a wound which a
perch or a trout knows how to estimate at
its full value. But that is not all the good
parent’s duty. He takes the eggs out of the
nest every now and then with his snout, airs
them a little in the fresh water outside,
and then replaces and rearranges them, so
that all may get a fair share of oxygen
and may hatch out about simultaneously.
It is this question of oxygen, indeed, which
gives the father fish
the greatest trouble.
That necessary of
life is dissolved in
water in very small
quantities : and it is
absolutely needed by
every egg in order
to enable it to
undergo those vital
changes which we
know as hatching.
To keep up a due
supply of oxygen,
therefore, the father
stickleback ungrudg¬
ingly devotes labo¬
rious days to poising
himself delicately
just above the nest,
as you see in No. 3,
and fanning the eggs
with his fins and
tail, so as to set up
a constant current
of water through the
centre of the barrel.
He sits upon the
eggs just as truly as
a hen does : only,
he sits upon them,
not for warmth, but for aeration.

For weeks together this exemplary parent
continues his monotonous task, ventilating
the spawn many times every day, till the
time comes for hatching. It takes about a
month for the eggs to develop ; and then
the proud father’s position grows more

..-«r

3.—THE FATHER STICKLEBACK AIRING THE EGGS.

IN NA TURE \S WORKSHOP.

559

arduous than ever. He has to rock a
thousand cradles at once, so to speak, and
to pacify a thousand crying babies. On the
one hand, enemies hover about, trying to eat
the tender transparent glass-like little fry, and
these he must drive off: on the other hand,
the good nurse must take care that the active
young fish do not stray far from the nest, and
so expose themselves prematurely to the
manifold dangers of the outer world. Till
they are big enough and strong enough to
take care of themselves, he watches with
incessant vigilance over their safety; as soon
as they can go forth with tolerable security
upon the world of their brook or pond, he
takes at last a well-merited holiday.

It is not surprising under these circum¬
stances to learn that sticklebacks are success¬
ful and increasing animals. Their numbers
are enormous, wherever they get a fair chance
in life, because they multiply rapidly up to
the extreme limit of the means of subsistence,
and develop as fast as food remains for
them. There the inexorable Malthusian
law at last steps in : when there is not
food enough for all some must starve :
that is the long and the short of the
great population question. But while pro-
vender is forthcoming they increase gaily.
Sticklebacks live mainly on the spawn of other
fish, though
they are so
careful of their
own, and they
are therefore
naturally hated
by trout-pre¬
servers and
owners of
fisheries in
general. Thou-
sands and
thousands are
caught each
year; in some
places, indeed,
they are so
numerous that
they are used
as manure. It
is their num¬
bers, of course,
that make them formidable : they are the
locusts of the streams, well armed and
pugnacious, and provided with most remark¬
able parental instincts of a protective
character, which enable them to fill up all
vacancies in their ranks as fast as they occur
with astonishing promptitude.

To those whose acquaintance with fish is
mainly culinary, it may seem odd to hear
that the father stickleback alone takes part
in the care of the nursery. But this is really
the rule among the whole class of fish : wher¬
ever the young are tended, it is almost always
the father, not the mother, who undertakes the
duty of incubation. Only two instances occur
where the female fish assumes maternal func¬
tions towards her young: about these I shall
have more to say a little later on. We must
remember that reptiles, birds, and mammals
are in all probability descended from fish as
ancestors, and it is therefore clear that the
habit of handing over the care of the young
to the female alone belongs to the higher
grades of vertebrates—in other words, is of
later origin. We need not be astonished,
therefore, to find that in many cases among
birds and other advanced vertebrates a partial
reversion to the earlier habit not infrequently
takes place. With doves, for example, the
cock and hen birds sit equally on the eggs,
taking turns about at the nest; and as for the
ostriches, the male bird there does most of
the incubation, for he accepts the whole of the
night duty, and also assists at intervals during
the daytime. There are numerous other cases
where the father bird shares the tasks of the
nursery at least equally with the mother. I

will glance
first, however,
at one of the
rare excep¬
tions among
fish where the
main duty
does not de¬
volve on the
devoted father.

In No. 4 we
have an illus¬
tration of the
tube-mouth or
Soleno stoma,
one of the two
known kinds
of fish in which
the female
shows a due
sense of her
position as a
mother. The tube-mouth, as you can
see at a glance, is a close relation of our
old friend the sea-horse, whose disguised
and undisguised forms in Australia and the
Mediterranean we have already observed
when dealing with the question of animal
masqueraders. Solenostoma is a native

4.—THE MOTHER TUBE-MOUTH CARRYING HER EGGS IN A POUCH.

560

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

of the Indian Ocean, from Zanzibar to
China, and in real life is about double
the size of Mr. Enock’s drawing. In the
male, the lower pair of fins are separate,
as is usual among fish : but in the female,
represented in the accompanying
sketch, they are lightly joined at
the edge, so as to form a sort of
pouch like a kangaroo’s, in which
the eggs are deposited after being
laid, and thus carried about in the
mother’s safe keeping. No. 5 shows
the arrangement of this pouch in
detail, with the eggs inside it.

The mother Solenostoma not only
takes charge of the spawn while it
is hatching in this receptacle, but
also looks after the young fry, like
the father stickleback, till they are
of an age to go off on their own
account in quest of adventures.

The most frequent adventure that
happens to them on the way is, of
course, being eaten.

Our own common English pipe¬
fish is a good example of the other
and much more usual case in which

5.—THE
POUCH, WITH
THE EGGS
INSIDE IT.

that he himself, not his mate, takes sole
charge of the young, incubates them in his
sack, and escorts them about for some time
after hatching. The pouch, which is more
fully represented in No. 7, is formed by a
loose fold of skin arising from
either side of the creature. In
the illustration this fold is partly
withdrawn, so as to show the
young pipe-fish within their safe
retreat after hatching out. It is
said, I know not how truly, that
the young fry will stroll out for an
occasional swim on their own
account, but will return at any threat
of danger to their father’s bosom,
for a considerable time after the
first hatching. This is just like
what one knows of kangaroos and
many other pouched mammals,
where the mother’s pouch becomes
a sort of nursery, or place of refuge,
to which the little ones return for
warmth or safety after every ex¬
cursion.

The sea-horses and many other
fish have similar pouches ; but,

the father alone is actuated by a proper oddly enough, in every case it is the male

sense of parental responsibility. The pipe¬
fish, indeed, might almost be described
as a pure and blameless ratepayer. No. 6
shows you the outer form of this familiar crea¬
ture, whom
you will recog¬
nise at a glance
as still more
nearly allied to
the sea-horses
than even the
tube-mouth.

Pipe-fishes are
timid and
skulking crea¬
tures. Like
their horse¬
headed rela¬
tions, they lurk
for the most
part among
seaweed for
p r o t e c tion,
and, being but
poor swim-

6.—THE FATHER PIPE-FISH, CARRYING HIS YOUNG IN A POUCH.

fish which bears it, and which undertakes
the arduous duty of nurse for his infant
offspring.

A few female fish, on the other hand, even

hatch the eggs
within their
own bodies,
and so appar-
ently bring
forth their
young alive,
like the Eng¬
lish lizard
among rep¬
tiles. This,
however, is far
from a com-
mo n case:
indeed, in an
immense num¬
ber of instan¬
ces, neither
parent pays
the slightest
attention to

mers, never the eggs after

venture far from the covering shelter of they are once laid and got rid of: the

their native thicket. But the curious part spawn is left to lie on the bottom and be

of them is that in this family the father fish eaten or spared as chance directs, while the

is provided with a pouch even more perfect young fry have to take care of themselves,

than that of the female tube-mouth, and without the aid of parental advice and educa-

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

56 i

tion. But exceptions occur where both
parents show signs of realizing the responsi¬
bilities of their position. In some little
South American river fish, for instance, the
father and mother together build a nest of
dead leaves for the spawn, and watch over
it in unison till the young are hatched. This
case is exactly analogous to that of the doves

among birds : I may add that wherever such
instances occur they always seem to be ac¬
companied by a markedly gentle and affec¬
tionate nature. Brilliantly-coloured fighting
polygamous fishes are fierce and cruel: mono¬
gamous and faithful animals are seldom
bright-hued, but they mate for life and are
usually remarkable for their domestic felicity.
The doves and love-birds are familiar in¬
stances.

Frogs are very closely allied to fish :
indeed, one may almost say that every frog
begins life as a fish, limbless, gill-bearing,
and aquatic, and ends it as something very
like a reptile, four-legged, lung-bearing, and
more or less terrestrial. For the tadpole
is practically in all essentials a fish. It is not
odd, therefore, to find that certain frogs
reproduce, in a very marked manner, the
fatherly traits of their fish-like ancestors.
There is a common kind of frog in France,
Belgium, and Switzerland, which does not
extend to England, but which closely recalls
the habits of the stickleback and the pipe¬
fish. Among these eminently moral amphi¬
bians, it is the father, not the mother, who
takes entire charge of the family—wheels the
perambulator, so to speak. The female lays
her spawn in the shape of long strings or
rolls of eggs, looking at first sight like slimy
necklaces. I have seen them as much as a
couple of yards long, lying loose on the grass
where the frog lays them. As soon as she
has deposited them, however, the father frog
hops up, twists the garlands dexterously in loose
festoons round his legs and thighs, and then
retires with his precious burden to some hole
in the bank of his native pond, where he

Vol. xvii.—71.

lurks in seclusion till the eggs develop.
Frogs do not need frequent doses of food—
their meals are often few and far between—
and during the six or eight weeks that the
eggs take to mature the father probably eats
very little, though he may possibly sally forth
at night, unobserved, in search of provender.
At the end of that time the devoted parent,
foreseeing developments,
takes to the water once m ore,
so that the tadpoles may be
hatched in their proper ele¬
ment. I may add that this
frog is a great musician in
the breeding season, but that
as soon as the tadpoles have
hatched out he loses his voice
entirely, and does not recover
his manly croak till the suc¬
ceeding spring. This is also
the case with the song of many
birds, the crest of the newt, the plumes of
certain highly-decorated trogons and nightjars,
and, roughly speaking, the decorative and
attractive features of the male sex in general.
Such features are given them during the
mating period as allurements for their con¬
sorts : they disappear, for the time at least,
like a ball-dress after a ball, as soon as no
immediate use can any longer be made of
them.

Some American tree-frogs, on the other
hand, imitate rather the motherly Solenostoma
than the fatherly instincts of the pipe-fish or
the stickleback. These pretty little creatures
have a pouch like the kangaroo, but in their
case (as in the kangaroo’s) it is the female
who bears it. Within this safe receptacle the
eggs are placed by the male, who pushes
them in with his hind feet; and they not
only undergo their hatching in the pouch,
but also pass through their whole tadpole
development in the same place. Owing to
the care which is thus extended to the eggs
and young, these advanced tree-frogs are
enabled to lay only about a dozen to fifteen
eggs at a time, instead of the countless
hundreds often produced by many of their
relations.

Tree-frogs have, of course, in most circum¬
stances much greater difficulty in getting at
water than pond-frogs; and this is especially
true in certain tropical or desert districts.
Hence most of the frogs which inhabit such
regions have had to find out or invent some
ingenious plan for passing through the tad¬
pole stage with a minimum of moisture. The
devices they have hit upon are very curious.
Some of them make use of the little pools

7. —THE POUCH HALF OPENED TO SHOW THE YOUNG.

5 62

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

collected at the bases of huge tropical leaf¬
stalks, like those of the banana plant; others
dispense with the aid of water altogether, and
glue their new-laid eggs on their own backs,
where the fry pass through the tadpole stage
in the slimy mucus which surrounds them.
Nature always discovers such cunning schemes
to get over apparent difficulties in her way:
and the tree-frogs have solved the problem for
themselves in half-a-dozen manners in different
localities. Oddest of all, perhaps, is the
dodge invented by “ Darwin’s frog,” a Chilian
species, in which the male swallows the eggs
as soon as laid, and gulps them into the
throat-pouch beneath his capacious neck:

into a bed of the soft skin, which soon
closes over it automatically, thus burying
each in a little cell or niche, where it under¬
goes its further development. The tadpoles
pass through their larval stage within the
cell, and then hop out, as the illustration
shows, in the four-legged condition. As
soon as they have gone off to shift for them¬
selves, the mother toad finds herself with a
ragged and honeycombed skin, which must
be very uncomfortable. So she rubs the
remnant of it off against stones or the bark
of trees, and redevelops a similar back
afresh at the next breeding season.

Almost never do we find a device in

8.—SURINAM TOAD, CARRYING HER FAMILY.

there they hatch out and pass through their
tadpole stage : and when at last they
arrive at frogly maturity, they escape into
the world through the mouth of their
father.

The Surinam toad, represented in No. 8,
is also the possessor of one of the strangest
nurseries known to science. It lives in the
dense tropical forests of Guiana and Brazil,
and is a true water-haunter. But at the breed¬
ing season the female undergoes a curious
change of integument. The skin on her back
grows pulpy, soft, and jelly-like. She lays
her eggs in the water: but as soon as she
has laid them, her lord and master plasters
them on to her impressionable back with his
feet, so as to secure them from all assaults of
enemies. Every egg is pressed separately

nature which occurs once only. The unique
hardly exists : nature is a great copyist. At
least two animals of wholly unlike kinds are
all but sure to hit independently upon the
self-same mechanism. So it is not surprising
to learn that a cat-fish has invented an
exactly similar mode of carrying its young
to that adopted by the Surinam toad : only,
here it is on the under surface, not the
upper one, that the spawn is plastered.
The eggs of this cat-fish, whose scientific
name is Aspredo, are pressed into the skin
below the body, and so borne about by the
mother till they hatch. This is the second
instance, of which I spoke above, where
the female fish herself assumes the care of
her offspring, instead of leaving it entirely
to her excellent partner.

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

563

Higher up in the scale of life, we get many
instances which show various stages in the
same progressive development towards greater
care for the safety and education of the young.
Among the larger lizards, for example, a
distinct advance may be traced between the
comparatively uncivilized American alligator
and his near ally, the much more cultivated
African crocodile. On the banks of the
Mississippi, the alligator lays a hundred eggs
or thereabouts, which she deposits in a nest
near the water’s edge, and then covers them
up with leaves and other decaying vegetable
matter. The fermentation of these leaves
produces heat, and so does for the alligator’s
eggs what sitting does for those of hens
and other birds : the mother deputes her
maternal functions, so to speak, to a
festering heap of decomposing plant-refuse.
Nevertheless, she loiters about all the time,
like Miriam round the ark which contained
Moses, to see what happens ; and when the
eggs hatch out, she leads her little ones down
to the river, and there makes alligators of
them. This is a simple and relatively low
stage in the nursery arrangements of the big
lizards.

The African crocodile, on the other hand,
goes a stage higher. It lays only about
thirty eggs, but these it buries in warm sand,
and then lies on top of them at night, both
to protect them from attack and to keep
them warm during the cooler hours. In
short, it sits upon them. When the young
crocodiles within the egg are ready to hatch,
they utter an acute cry. The mother then
digs down to the eggs, and lays them freely
on the surface, so that the little reptiles may
have space to work their way out unimpeded.
This they do by biting at the shell with a
specially developed tooth; at the end of two
hours’ nibbling they are free, and are led
down to the water by their affectionate
parent. In these two cases we see the
beginnings of the instinct of hatching, which
in birds, the next in order in the scale of
being, has become almost universal.

I say a/most universal, because even among
birds there are a few kinds which have not
to this day progressed beyond the alligator
level. Australia is the happy hunting-ground
of the zoologist in search of antiquated forms,
elsewhere extinct; and several Australian
birds, such as the brush-turkeys, still treat
their eggs essentially on the alligator method.
The cock birds heap up huge mounds of
earth and decaying vegetable matter, as much
as would represent several cartloads of
mould ; and in this natural hot-bed the hens
lay their eggs, burying each separately with a
good stock of leaves around it. The heat of
the sun and the fermenting mould hatch them
out between them ; to expedite the process, the
birds uncover the eggs during the warmer
part of the day, expose them to the sun, and
bury them again in the hot-bed towards even¬
ing. Several intermediate steps may also be
found between this early stage of communal
nesting by proxy and the true hatching in¬
stinct ; a good one is supplied by the ostrich,
which partially buries its eggs in hot sand,
but sits on them at intervals, both father and
mother birds taking shares by turn in the
duties of incubation.

The vast subject which I have thus lightly
skimmed is not without interest, again, from
its human implications. Savages as a rule
produce enormous families; but then, the
infant mortality in savage tribes is propor¬
tionately great. Among civilized races,
families are smaller, and deaths in infancy
are far less numerous. The higher the class
or the natural grade of a stock, the larger as
a rule the proportion of children safely reared
to the adult age. The goal towards which
humanity is slowly moving would thus
seem to be one where families in most
cases will be relatively small—perhaps not
more on an average than three to a house¬
hold—but where most or all of the children
brought into the world will be safely reared
to full maturity. This is already becoming
the rule in certain favoured ranks of European
society.

By K. and Hesketh Prichard (“E. and H. Heron”).

RAUNKSEY, the prize-fighter,
had just “ quit work,” and was
engaged in crossing a few last
punches on the bag. His
whole 2oolb. of swift muscle
and bone went and came with
every blow. His dark head jutted up and
down between his high shoulders as he hit
the bag with a sort of latent fury that was
not nice to witness.

Pie paused to listen to the man beside him.
That individual was evidently urging some
point. He was a smallish, greasy-looking
man with soaped hair, and had in his time
fought for the edification of low - class
audiences. From that profession, in which
he had hardly been a success, he passed
to the keeping of a saloon. As he had
migrated from Houndsditch as a boy, he
still retained some of the quaint peculiarities
of his mother tongue.

“ What I want you to do,” he was saying,
“ is to stand there at my bar and show your¬
self off. You’ll draw the swell custom to my
place, and I am willing to pay you a pretty
stiff fee for the exclusive right of your
patronage. I’m on the dead square. I
want it to be known in Buffalo City that

Beetle—beg pardon, I mean Mr. Simeon
Braunksey, the famous prize-fighter, is on
view in my saloon every single evening, and
that he is not to be seen under the same
circumstances at any other place in Buffalo.
It would be a good thing for both of us, and
it’ll be an easy way of earning money for
you. Is it a go ? ”

“ Whether it is or whether it’s not depends
entirely upon the terms you offer me. There
are 274 other saloons in this city besides
yours, and not one of them but would jump
at the chance of hiring me.”

The Cockney-American bar-keeper grunted.
He was well aware of the truth of the facts
stated by the prize-fighter, and he had come
over to the latter’s training-quarters with the
intention of getting a signed agreement out
of the man of blows. In the old days, when
he had been a saloon-keeper in a frontier
town, Blowney had cut out the opposition
by putting cochineal in his whisky, and
ascribing its consequent ruddiness of hue to
the extreme excellence and antiquity of the
spirit. He was a pushing man, and he knew
to the full the benefit the advertisement of
the prize-fighter’s presence would confer upon
his establishment. But he was not pleased
to find Braunksey equally aware of the facts.

THE NO-GOOD BRITISHER.

5^5

“ Put it at ten dollars a night. Hours ten
to twelve, and all you can drink thrown in,”
he said, at length.

“ I J m in training, and so I don’t drink, as
I guess you’re aware. Twenty dollars a
night every night, Sundays in. Say that, and
I’ll call it a deal.”

“ It’s out of the question. Your price is
up just now, I am not denying it; but even
you would be dear at the figure you name.
It would mean my doing business at a
loss ! ”

The prize-fighter scowled.

“ I’m the most interesting man in America
to-day,” he said. “ If you were to hire
the President to come along and show him¬
self, or the Emperor of Germany to gas
around in your bar, neither of the two would
be as lucrative an investment as I. No, sir;
twenty dollars each night is the price I
mentioned.”

And, indeed, what Beetle Braunksey said
was not so very far wide of the truth. In a
fortnight he was due to fight the holder for
the heavy-weight championship of the world.
Consequently, there were not a few men in
America who opened their newspapers for
the sole reason that they wanted to see how
and what the two opponents were doing.
Braunksey was followed about by a little tribe
of newspaper men, who recorded all his
actions. He was introduced on an average
to a hundred new acquaintances every day.
And all these things made him realize to the
full his own importance.

A heavy-weight championship glove-fight
is at all times interesting. But if the two
pugilists who are going to fight add rancour
to the business, the fight becomes infinitely
more interesting to the outside public. That
is human nature.

Nor was there any lack of rancour in the
present instance. Indeed, it was commonly
reported that the adversaries had to be kept
apart by the diplomacy of their respective
backers. Otherwise the fight might come off
in the streets at any hour should they chance
to meet. Thus the situation did not lack
piquancy.

“Look here,” said Blowney, at last, “I’ll
pay you twenty dollars a night on one con¬
dition—and more besides.”

“ Let’s have your condition.”

“ It’s been done before,” said the bar¬
keeper, half-apologetically ; “ and there is no
reason I can see why it should not be done
again. I’m a plain business man, and what
I want to get out of you is a flaming big
advertisement.”

Blowney paused.

“ Get on to facts, then,” said the big prize¬
fighter, disdainfully. “ I know what you
want.”

“ It’s this. I’d pay twenty dollars a night
for fourteen nights, and a hundred over, if
you would give us a bit of an exhibition the
first night.”

“ What do you mean ? Let’s hear your
meaning.”

“ I mean that there’s a big, ugly, no-good
Britisher, who is in my place ’most every
evening. If you were to put up your hands
to him and catch him a swing or two on the
jaw—kill the beast if you like, I don’t care.
Do you understand me now ? ”

“You want me to knock this green hand
about to make sport ? ”

“That’s it.”

“I’m a devil when I get my hands up,”
said Braunksey. “ But anyway, he wouldn’t
show any fight. It’s not easy to find a
man willing to quarrel with me,” he ended,
proudly.

“You smack him in the face and see.
You’re not new to the game. How about
that chap you killed in Hicks’s bar down at
New Orleans ? ”

The prize-fighter’s eyes lit up.

“ Remember who you’re speaking to,” he
shouted. “ The chap I killed in Hicks’s bar
deserved all he got, the swine ! He gave me
too much lip, so I just knocked him into his
own funeral.”

“ Don’t make trouble with me,” said the
bar-keeper ; “I’m here offering you money.
Will you smash him up to-night ? ”

Braunksey considered. The foulness of
the scheme did not reach him.

“ I’ll drop round to-night and take a look
at him. What’s in this piece of paper ? ” he
said, as Blowney handed him a document.

“ Our agreement. I’ll read it to you : ‘ I,
Simeon Braunksey, hereby agree with Charles
Blowney, saloon-keeper, to be on view
between the hours of nine and twelve every
evening till my fight with the present holder
of the world’s heavy-weight championship is
decided, I receiving twenty dollars a night for
such attendance.’ That’s all. Will you sign ? ”

“ You don’t make any mention of what
we spoke of last ? ” said Braunksey, sus¬
piciously.

“ I guess it’s better not to have any paper
about over a matter of that sort. There are
some fools who would not think it quite on
the straight. No, it’s just a difficulty that is
going to crop up between you two, and that’ll
need settling right there.”

5 66

THE S TEA AH MAGAZINE.

Braunksey nodded.

“ But about this chap I’m going to smash.
What’s his size ? ”

“ You’re twenty pounds heavier,” said
Blowney. “ But he’s a holy caution. They
say he used to be a gentleman over in
England, and I don’t think he wears his
right name. He keeps all his airs, though.
It’ll do him good to have to swallow the
lesson in manners you are going to give him.
He’s like a cork in a bottle of wine. There’s
far too much of him dangling around.”

“ Well, he’s going to get hurt,” said
Braunksey, as the other took his leave.
“ I’ll be round to-night.”

II.

Zack raised his big black chin and
balanced it in the palm of his hand. Zack
was not his real name, but at any rate it was
the variation of it he chose
to be known by. I fancy
he must have been think¬
ing, which was a form of
torture he rarely indulged
in at that particular period
of his life.

He walked slowly down
Main Street, thinking. In
his pocket there reposed
the sum of 75 cents. He
had earned them that
morning by heaving pig-
iron for seven and a half
consecutive hours, and
now he was going to make
the most of them.

The electric light shone
refulgently upon his face
and garments. In all that
hastening street he seemed
to be the only purposeless
man. The course of his
life was like that of a ship
which has lost her reckon¬
ing, and yet beats ahead
through a fog. The events
of the next hour might
include a wreck.

In front of him, two “ J

men arm-in-arm were
attracting the attention of the passers-by.
Both were of line make, and carried them¬
selves with a certain swing which, if he had
been noticing, would have discovered to him
their profession. The two, indeed, were
Braunksey and his sparring partner, Yatter-
ham. Also their destination appeared to be
his own, and the three turned aside into a

hot sanded saloon, whose walls were covered
with the pictures of gentlemen belonging to
the American prize-ring.

Blowney’s saloon was fuller than usual.
In the evening papers the great glove-fight
vociferated itself in headlines. Braunksey
was already on view. He stood at the bar-
side, and received with the complacency of a
west-end Duchess.

“Say, Mr.-, shake hands with Mr.

Sim Braunksey, who knocked Keigh out in
two rounds at New Orleans last year.”

That was the form of introduction, and
the proud and the brave numbered Simeon
Braunksey among their acquaintance, fingered
his forearm, discussed the Fitzsimmons
swing, agreed that Corbett was the cleverer
sparrer, and felt they were in the very first
flight of American prize-fighting society. And
certainly the society at Blowney’s was repre¬
sentative. Blowney him¬
self. Dan Tone, who was
paperchasing through the
weeks with a colossal for¬
tune. Here the fine neck
and thickened shoulders
of some clean - run and
healthy K young athlete;
beside him perhaps the
figure of a vicious weak¬
ling who bestowed his
presence because it was
the thing to do. A score
of others also, who talked,
betted, boasted, criticised :
who, in fact, did every¬
thing but—fight.

Into this saloon, and
caring for none of these
things at that particular
moment, walked Zack. He
might have been playing
the hard-up squire’s son in
far-off Hampshire instead
of battling with the swing¬
ing world. But Zack had
offended at home, had
left Oxford at mid-term;
had, in fact, committed so
*•" many sins that ^50 and a

second - class passage to
New York had been his portion. He had
lived like a gentleman till the last bill he
possessed broke into silver dollars, and then
Zack had worked at many jobs, from carry¬
ing a traveller’s bag to his hotel to heaving
pig-iron in the interests of a Limited Liability
Company.

He walked into Blowney’s saloon with the

THE NO-GOOD BRITISHER.

567

unintrospective swing of a gentleman. That
swing is well known in America. When
coupled with shabby clothes it is the hall¬
mark of a man who has gone under.

Blowney leaned across the bar.

“ That’s him,” he whispered to Braunksey.

Braunksey looked round intolerantly. Zack
had retired with his drink to one of the small
round tables, and was engaged in filling up a
wooden pipe. There was a certain sugges¬
tion of disdain of his surroundings in the
Britisher’s careless attitude.

“ He’ll show a game,” whispered Blowney.
“ Maybe he knows who you are. Try him,
Braunksey. That can’t harm, anyway.”

The prize-fighter was not a diplomatist.
He was being paid to knock the Britisher
about, and he went the shortest way to begin
it. Elbowing a path through the crowd, he
stood in front of Zack and regarded him with
a lowering look. Zack returned it. One of
two things was very evident from his eyes.
Either he was not acquainted with Braunksey’s
record, or else he was a man of high-tempered
courage. His look maddened the pugilist.

“ I don’t like yofir face. Take it away,”

Braunksey said, truculently. “ Take the
beastly thing away.”

Zack gave a little gesture that brought the
blood into Braunksey’s face.

“Are you going to take that face away,
you there, or are you going to stay and get
it knocked in ? ” the pugilist continued.

At no time exactly a peaceful man, at that
ebb of his fortunes Zack was not unready to
come to blows.

“ One of us has got to get out,” he said.
“ Is it going to be you ? You’re working for
a row. D’you want to challenge me to
fight ? ”

“ I’m going to smash your face for you,”
reiterated the prize-fighter, violently. With
the words he bent forward and flung the
table at which Zack was sitting backwards.
In a second the Britisher was on his feet
again.

“ Will any gentleman do me the favour of
acting as my second ? ” he asked.

“You won’t need any,” sneered Braunksey.
“ Do you think this is a championship glove-
fight ? ”

A laugh went up from the crowd. It was
very obvious that the stranger did not know
the name of his opponent. Yet one of the
clean-built athletes stepped forward. The
audience even in that bar was by far too
keen upon fair play to be solid in wanting the
fight to proceed. There were a dozen men
against it. The big man who had offered to
be his second whis¬
pered something in
Zack’s ear.

“Who is he?”
asked Zack.

“It’s Sim
Braunksey. He’s
killed a man this
way before no’vV.
Take my advice.
I and my friends,
all of us, do a
little in the way
of boxing. We
could get you out
safe. Will you
run ? ”

“Thanks, no.”
“D’you then
know — much
about fighting ? ”

“ I have boxed
a bit.”

“ The man you
have before you
will be heavy¬
weight champion of the world inside a fort¬
night. You haven’t a chance. Take advice.
Besides, he’s altogether outside your weight.
What’s yours ? ”

“About i8olb.”

“He’s 198 trained fine. Besides, he’s in
the very pink of condition. He made the

“are you going to take that face away?”

5 68

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

row with you on purpose. It’s just a put-up
thing. Really, in your place I personally
wouldn’t let it go any further.”

“ Will you do me a favour ? ” asked Zack,
suddenly.

The American nodded quickly. “ Of
course, if I can,” said he.

“Then,” said the Englishman, “I should
be infinitely obliged to you if you will go
and arrange the details with Braunksey’s
seconds. I suppose he has no objection to
fighting me in rounds. I’m quite determined
to go through with it, and see how I come
out at the far end. May I count on you ? ”

“ With pleasure,” answered the American.

While Zack was holding his whispered
conversation with
his second the
hush of intense
interest had fallen
upon the company.

There was some¬
thing they liked in
the way the Britisher
bore himself. There
must be a kinship
between the brave;
anyhow, in either
England or
America, a man
who looks his
opponent in the
face is sure of a
backing.

And the motley
crowd in Blowney’s
were pleased with
Zack. He was
about to stand up
against the most
savage fighter in
the ring, and from
his outward appear¬
ance no one could
have said that his
heart was beat¬
ing abnormally. Besides, he made a fine
figure standing there, with his square jaw and
arched chest. And there was a look in his
countenance that gained for him the respect
of the better part of the spectators.

In the stillness, broken only by the occa¬
sional shuffle of feet, every word that passed
between Yatterham and Zack’s second,
Morgan, was perfectly audible. Then there
arose a hum as it became plain that the
Britisher was determined to make a battle.
Then followed an uneasy sway of the crowd,
and a voice at the back struck up :—

“ Don’t let the brave fellow fight. It’s a
put-up job.”

Braunksey made a rush towards the speaker,
and in another moment the saloon would
have been in chaos had not Zack’s voice
broken in.

“ I’m very much obliged,” he said, looking
in the direction of the speaker, “ but really
the option of fighting or not seems to lie
with me. Are you ready, Braunksey ? ”

Those words clinched the matter. Zack
began to peel in an unostentatious corner.
The prize-fighter merely buttoned up his
coat.

“ I’m going to knock the stuffing
out of him,” he reiterated.

Zack answered
nothing, but folded
his garments, and
the man who had
spoken came for¬
ward and took
charge of them.
“ I’m proud,” said
he.

Meantime the
tables were moved
back, and an ex¬
tempore ring was
formed. The
electric light shone
down in dazzling
whiteness upon the
scene; the bobbing
hats and the tiers
of faces, and in
the middle the
figures of the two
opponents.

Braunksey was
the larger man.
He was far thicker
than Zack. In¬
deed, he was one of
those whose sojourn
in the ring is of no
long duration. Their muscle fleshes over
easily, and they find themselves grown un¬
wieldy at thirty years of age. But as he
stood Braunksey was physically excellent,
and it was well known that a blow of his
which went home often meant the winning of
a fight. He was clever with his hands, too,
but not superlatively clever. Indeed, he
placed his chief reliance on a left-right that
could crush a man like an egg-shell.

Zack, on the other hand, was equally tall,
slimmer, yet deep of chest, with long, sinewy,
and well-covered arms, and the light way he

THE TWO OPPONENTS.”

THE NO-GOOD BRITISHER.

569

moved on his feet showed that, at one time
or another, the no-good Britisher had tasted
the pleasures of the fray.

Imagine to yourself the possibilities that
stared him in the face. The eyes he was
looking into showed dark with determination.
Braunksey was' “ raised.” In fact, the savage
in Braunksey did not call for much raising.
It dwelt conveniently near the surface. If
the two were fighting their quarrel out with
swords the issue would hardly have been
less likely to end in maiming. A blow of
Braunksey’s that crashed home was every
whit as dangerous to life as a sword-thrust or
a pistol bullet.

There was no preliminary hand-shake, and
the first thing that told the spectators of
the beginning of the battle was a rush of
Braunksey’s, which the Britisher stopped
with a hard left.

A shout went up, for the half-arm blow had
gone and come as quick as a piston-rod.
Braunksey fetched a grunt and feinted. His
idea was to play with his victim a little, and
after an exhibition to smash him. He hardly
expected to be attacked. But he was.
Whether his ease of movement was hampered
by his coat, or whether he was careless, will
never be known ; yet the fact remains that
Zack shot forward like a bolt and planted a
clean left-right on the prize-fighter’s waistcoat.
But he did not get away scatheless--he
received a showy swing between the eyes that
sent a little streak of crimson trickling down
his chin.

“ Lay him out, Sim,” yelled Yatterham,

from his corner. “ Don’t let the-be

able to boast he made two rounds of it with
you ! ”

“ He’ll make more than that,” shouted
Morgan, in return.

Braunksey heard, and his tactics changed.
It would certainly never do to have it said
that this unknown man had stood up against
Sim Braunksey for more than a few T counters !
The prize-fighter’s huge shoulders bunched
up, and in another moment he was boring
down on Zack with all his well - known
ferocity. .

Zack met him clean and straight, fighting
him off with an extended left. Then came
an easy feint and a right swing. The
Britisher ducked and countered heavily.
The prize-fighter gave a squeal of rage, and
charged after him like a wounded elephant.
The blows he had received had not hurt him,
and his left came with a sickening whistle
for Zack’s jaw, who ducked and took the blow
on his forehead, and was beaten to one

Vol. .\vii.—72

knee. He disengaged, however, and “time”
was called amid a little thunder of applause.

The prize-fighter drew off sullenly, and a
hum of conversation succeeded the shouting
of the spectators.

“ He’s grit,” reiterated Morgan, and then
“ Fight him off. Keep on fighting him off.

I >euce only knows what luck you may have.”

Zack said nothing. He glanced across at
Braunksey, who had now taken off his
coat. At the same moment the crowd
noticed this new development, and cheered
wildly for the plucky amateur.

“ Let’s stop the fight up right now,” said
the man who was holding Zack’s clothes.
“ You’re grit, mister, but you can’t hope—-

Zack looked up from his basin.

“ Perhaps I can help to get him licked this
day fortnight,” he said. And the two men
were in their places again. This time, for
Braunksey, there was no question of playing
with his opponent. He took up the offensive
and battered at Zack’s defence. Blow after
blow went half home, and the Englishman,
now drenched in blood, met them grimly.
The old Berserk was awake in him, and the
crowd was not slow to realize the fact. They
now saw that Zack would have to be knocked
out of the fight; they knew also that he
would never retire from it while he could
stand. The set of his jaw showed how he
had nailed his colours to the mast, and when
just on time he landed a weakening blow on
Braunksey’s face the applause was positively
deafening.

Round three began with a staggerer for the
Englishman, who was just too late to stop a
left jab. It plainly shook him, and with a
grunt the pugilist rushed in to victory. But
Zack dodged the rush, and gathering up his
numbing muscles he battered gallantly at the
prize-fighter’s ribs. It was just that uncertain
moment of the fight between first and second
winds, and at the end of the round Zack
staggered to his corner with a brightening
eye and clearing brain.

At the end of the fourth round the
spectators were delirious, for Zack had got in
the majority of the blows. Yet Braunksey’s
one blow swamped two of the Britisher’s,
and close on time, feinting with his left, he
swung his right and Zack ricocheted on his
shoulder across the sanded floor.

“ That was a peach of a blow,” yelled
Yatterham. “ That’s done it ! ”

But it had not, and the Britisher regained
his feet. Meantime Yatterham was growing
anxious. It was all very well to knock a
green hand about, but it was not wise to risk

57°

THE S TEA HD MAGAZINE.

the purse of 5o.ooodols. offered by the
Athletic Club by running the chance of being
hurt in an inglorious by-battle.

Zack, however, had to be helped to his
corner.

“ Chuck it now,” urged Morgan. “ You’re
a man. And you’ve done quite enough to
give you fame.”

“ My last round,” gasped Zack. “ One of
the two of us will have to stop after this.”

At the call of time the two men, now red
from head to foot, took their places, and amid
a dead hush that famous final round began.

Braunksey led off, hitting like a kicking
dray-horse. And then under the blows, and
with a purposeful rush, Zack ran in and
clinched. He took his blows as he came,
but he never heeded. He had been a famous
wrestler, and he caught Braunksey in such a
way that he could not be thrown off. His
lean arms were round the prize-fighter’s
middle, and slowly—slowly the great man’s
two hundred pounds was lifted from the
ground. Then came the sound of a fall and
the rap of a striking head, and the two men
lay as they had
fallen.

Neither moved.

Someone counted
aloud — one,
two, three, four,
five, six, seven,
eight, nine, ten-—
and still the forms
lay upon the
sanded floor, the
Britisher beside
the pugilist. Then
there arose a
cheer, for it was
known that Geoff¬
rey Zack, the no¬
good Britisher, had

fought a battle to a knock-out with Simeon
Braunksey, and had made a draw of it.

The Americans took him to the best hotel
in Buffalo, where they washed his gory face
tenderly. Then his seconds saw him safely
into bed, and afterwards those wily men went
out and laid money against Braunksey in his
coming fight, and they laid a tidy sum in the
name of Zack. Next morning America was
ringing with the news, and early in the
forenoon the Barnums and Baileys were
vying with one another in endeavouring to
induce Zack to join their respective establish¬
ments. They offered him a hundred dollars
a day to exhibit himself, and Zack thanked
them and declined politely.

A fortnight later Simeon Braunksey stood
up to the world’s champion, but he had
very little show. Somehow he had been
damaged in his by-battle with Zack, and he
paid for trying to knock a green-horn about
by losing the biggest battle in his career.

Zack left the city secretly. He found
sudden popularity embarrassing. His Ameri-
can friends
wanted to stand
him a dinner and
pay him the two
thousand dollars
they had won in
his name, but
Zack would have
none of it. He
said he was a no¬
good Britisher, but
still he had his
pride. Anyway, he
went. But there
is always a career
lying open for Zack
in the American
prize-ring.

HIS LEAN ARMS WERE ROUND THE l'RIZE-FIGHTER*S MIDDLE.”

A n imal A dualities.

Note. —These articles consist oj a series of perfectly authentic anecdotes of animal life , illustrated
by Mr. f. A. Shepherd , an artist long a favourite with readers of The Strand Magazine. We shall
be glad to receive similar anecdotes , fully authenticated by names of witnesses, for use in future nufnbers.
While the stories themselves will be matters of fact , it must be understood that the artist will treat the
subject with freedom and fancy> more with a view to an amusing commentary than to a mere repre¬
sentation of the occurrence.

XII.

was so much like the other chicks of the
same brood of both sexes, that only its
mother could have told it from any one of
the others. At the age of three weeks,
however,, began a great development of
character and. instinct. Just at this period
another hen had produced a hatch of nine.
This hen was of a flighty, fashionable dis¬
position—a ftn-de-siecle society mother—and
as soon as the chicks were well through
their shells she set off calling on other hens in
her set, and left the unhappy chicks to sprawl
about and look after themselves. The three-
weeks’ old chick viewed this maternal deser¬
tion with much concern; it was a young
chick still, though old by comparison with
the new arrivals, but all its maternal instincts

N the fowl-run of the Rev. Robert
Evans, at Walton, near Stafford,
two years ago, occurred a sad
example of misplaced instinct.

It was a populous fowl-run, this
of Mr. Evans’s, and the large families of the
many hens were constantly welcoming fresh
broods. It is with one particular chicken in
one of these broods that this story is con¬
cerned. If you search the biographies of
great men you will find in many, perhaps
in most cases, they gave no signs of any
special distinction in their early years.
This chick was like those great men. It

A SOCIETY MOTHER,

572

THE STEANE MAGAZINE .

about half a size smaller than its nurse. The
maternal chick presented a similar sight,
translated into chicken terms. There was no

SHOCKING NEWS.

very small chicken might be observed, with a
rudimentary wing on each side, doing its
very utmost to cover another chicken only a
little smaller. And not the
two chicks alone; for the
remaining seven, seeing
them so comfortably lodged
and protected, rushed to
get their share of those
ridiculously inadequate
wings. Thenceforward that
chick became the mother
of the nine, who nestled
under the shadow of her
wings — and no doubt got
as much shelter from the
shadow as from the wings.
Mr. Evans and his sister
were most tenderly affected

were aroused by the sight. You have no
doubt seen a very tiny boy or girl staggering
about a street under the weight of a baby

distinct indication of its legal engagement as
nurse by the society hen, but it took upon
itself all the duties, and every evening this

ANIMAL ACTUALITIES.

573

by the scene. “ Dear, dear,” they said, “what
wonderful and beautiful instinct! What a
mother that chicken will become! ” And
they pictured a glorious future for that bird
(and, incidentally, for themselves), with a long
succession of broods of thirteen each, always
well and healthily brought up. The bird,
indeed, seemed likely to be so valuable that
Mr. Evans felt some scruple about keeping
it selfishly for himself, and gave it to his
small nephew.

But they were deceived. The bird was
maternally virtuous enough, but it had no
right to such virtues—no right whatever.
One morning Mr. Evans’s sister burst into
her brother’s study, with dismay upon her
face. “ What do you think ? ” she exclaimed.
“The white hen is a cock ! ”

And true it was. The motherly chicken,
growing older and larger, and more shelter-
some of wing, had now developed a comb
and wattle and a tail altogether inconsistent

with henhood or motherliness of any sort.
It was a cock! And as motherly and old-
womanish as ever!

Now, Mr. Evans already had a fine young
cockerel—a very dashing and gallant bird of
military bearing, most exceedingly popular
with the hens. Another wasn’t wanted at
all—for the sake of peace in the yard. What
to do ? One obvious course was to kill and
eat the white hen which was a cock. But
then it was no longer Mr. Evans’s bird : he
had given it to his nephew, who was now
away at school; so that it was scarcely
possible either to eat it or to give it away.
And besides, to eat such a kindly, unnatur¬
ally virtuous bird would be at least as bad as
eating or giving away Dr. Barnardo.

So the white cock with the hen’s disposi¬
tion was spared, and neither eaten nor given
away. He grew up a weak-spirited, effemin¬
ate, henny sort of bird, with misplaced
motherly instincts which could never attain

PESPISEP |

574

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

CHASED !

realization. Imagine a big boy nursing a
doll while his schoolmates were at cricket or
football ; what sort of life would he lead in
the school? Just such a life as this cock
lived in the fowl-run. He was a disgrace to
cockhood, despised by the hens and chased
by the gallant cock. This military despot
gave him no peace, and on the slightest sign
of attention to the ladies he chastised him
mercilessly. “ A hen you’ve made yourself,”
said the tyrant—said it in his every move¬
ment—“and a hen you shall remain !”

He still lives, and must still live. One of
the two had to go, and it was the tyrant. He,

ill-fated gallant, proved as fine on the dish as
in the yard. But as for his unworthy successor
—never was such a failure as lord of the
poultry yard. He neither reigns nor struts nor
rules the roost as do other cocks. He cannot
be called cock of the walk, nor even cock of
the run—unless it is because he runs away
from the hens. They let him live, and that
is about all. They despise him, peck him,
bully him, and he can’t muster a return peck.
Any hen—any chick, even—would despise
such a peckless, timid creature. He is
afraid of everything. Perhaps he is most
afraid of his wives—but, then, that is a

HENPECKED !

ANIMAL ACTUALITIES.

575

thing not altogether unheard-of in species of
higher development. But he is also afraid of
his own shadow, of a chance-blown piece of
paper, of a pert sparrow—almost (though cer¬
tainly not quite) of the early worm that
rewards his early rising. And although he
has not yet been observed to be greatly
scared by any handful of grain thrown in his
way, it is a fact that he is too timid to go
through a small opening in a wall which leads

into a field, and which is the usual means of
exit for all the rest of the poultry. Perhaps he
is afraid that his martial tramp may disturb the
wall’s foundations and bring it down on his
back. And still, through it all, that pre¬
posterous motherly instinct exists ! He sits
about, intent on persuading Mr. Evans to
mistake him for a broody hen, and to provide
him with a sitting of eggs. And he will
never be really happy till he gets it.

REALLY HAPPY.

A Peep into “Punch."

[The
is the first

By J. Holt Schooling.

Proprietors of “ Punch ” have given special permission to repro

e first occasion when a periodical has been enaoled to present a selec i f * '

Part V. —1865 to 1869.

This Pari contains the first of Mr. Linley Sambourne's drawings for “ Punch.

Y this time,
1865 to
1869, we
have come
near to the
middle part
of Mr. Punch’s sixty years’
collection, and we tap the
ten Volumes numbered 48
to 57, taking them from
that long row of one hun¬
dred and fifteen volumes
which stand on the shelves
as a source of constant
pleasure to the owner of

Condescending. —Master Torn (going back to
School , to Fellow Passenger). “ If you’d like to
Smoke, you know, Gov’nour, don t you mind me,
1 rather like it! ”

I.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1865.

A Delicate Creature. —Mistress (,on her Keturn jrom ai'uizj.i
don’t Understand, Smithers, this Daily Item of Five Shillings for Dinneis.

1 ^SmUhers. “Well, Mum, the Lower Su wants was so Addicted to Pork,
Mum, I re’lly— I thought you wouldn’t Objeck to my avmg my Meals
helsewhere l ” 2.—1865.

Richard Doyle has gone, John
Leech has gone, and with them
many less prominent artists,, whose
work, however, still lives in Mr.
Punch’s pages. We now find Charles
Keene and George DuMaurier assert¬
ing their genius, with Sir John Ten-
niel — then plain John — as Mr.
Punch’s sheet-anchor for his car¬
toons.

This period in Punch's life is made
notable by reason of the coming of
Mr. Linley Sambourne—that clean
master of pure line - work, whose
vigour and decision of character no
less than his power of fertile inven¬
tion are so plainly shown in the

drawings and cartoons that
now for thirty-two years
have been a part of Punch
itself, although in the early
years of Mr. Sambourne’s
connection with Punch ,
circumstances did not give
opportunity for the.display
of the strong individuality
which marks Mr. Sam¬
bourne’s later work. We
shall see the first contribu¬
tion of this famous artist
on a later page of this part
of “ A Peep into Punch.”
Volume 48 of Punch,
covering the first half of the year
1865, which is here represented by
pictures Nos. i to 6, contains the
Editorial Notification to Punch's
readers of the public sale by auction
of the entire collection of John
Leech’s original sketches which had
appeared in Punch . As was stated
last month, when we saw his last
picture, John Leech died October 29,
1864, and this sale of his sketches
was promoted by the proprietors of
Punch and by Leech’s fellow-workers,
to supplement the slender means left
by him for the support of his wife
and children. The sale took place
at Christie’s in April, 1865, and very
high prices were realized for the work

A Verbal Difficulty. —Irritable Captain. “Your Barrels disgracefully

dirty, Sir, and it's not the first time ; I’ve a good mind to-

Private Flannigan. “ Shure, Sor, I niver- _ , „

Captain (Irish too). “ Silence, Sir, when you spake to an Officer J
3.—1865.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH .

577

To A Great Mind Nothing is Impossible —Paterfamilias in Ireland
(iv/io has been detained some time in the Station collecting his Large
Family and Luggage). “ Why, confound you, you Fellow, what do you
mean by telling me that you had a Conveyance that could take our whole
Party of Ten, and getting me to send away the other Cabmen? ”
Ca 7 ‘-Dnver. ‘‘ Well, and Shure it’s the Truth I tould yer ’anner. See,
now, I’ll take Six on the Kyar, an’ as many runnin’ afther it as ye like ! ”
5.-1865.

has recorded that, to the surprise
and regret of all who knew of the
immense mass of work produced by
Leech, he was unable to leave even
a moderate fortune behind him, and
Mr. F. G. Kitton in his Biographical
Sketch of John Leech states that
the artist’s generous disposition had
led him to undertake financial re¬
sponsibilities which wore him down.

Leech died at the early age of
forty-six, and on the morning of his
death it is recorded by Mr. Kitton
that he said to his wife : “ Please
God, Annie, I’ll make a fortune for
us yet.” The same writer states that

Vol. xvii.— 73 .

Tricks Upon Travellers. — To 7 tm Boy (to Coun¬
try Acquaintance). “Who are They! Why, Cus¬
tomers as ’ad their ’eads brushed off by Machinery,
’cos they wouldn’t ’old ’em still while they was a
bein’ Shampooed ! ” 6.—1865.

that she has seen John Leech
affected nearly to tears by the im¬
perfect reproduction of some of his
work, which in those days had to
be intrusted to the wood-engraver
for reproduction. Also, Mr. Kitton
mentions that Leech is quoted as
saying to a friend who was admiring
a study in pencil, “ Wait till Satur¬
day and see how the engraver will
have spoiled it.”

Sarah the Housemaid, who is very fond of playing practical jokes on
Jeames, has made a mistake cn this occasion !

7.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1865.

Leech, who was the leading spirit of
Punch for twenty years, earned the
sum of ^40,000 by his contributions
to Punchs pages.

Leech’s extreme sensitiveness no
doubt helped to cause his early
death, and on this score Miss
Georgina Hogarth, the sister-in-law
of Charles Dickens, once told me

Rural Felicity. — Scared Housemaid. “ Oh ! Mum ! ’adn’t Master
better go Round with the Lantern, there’s a Moanin’ Gipsy somewhere in
the Back Garden ! ” 4.—1865.

of the man who has left such a rich legacy behind
him for the benefit of all the world, a small part of
which has been shown in the earlier chapters of this
article.

Mr. W. P. Frith, R.A., in his “ Life ” of John Leech,

578

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

J— ^

rS. —--

Young, hut Artfui.. — Frank.
my Sister ! There she is.”

Arthur. “ All right—what for ? ”

Frank. “ Why, because then , / could Kiss

8.— BY DU MAURIER, 1865.

I say, Arthur, I wish you’d go and Kiss

The “ Biographical Sketch ” of Leech also
contains the following very interesting men¬
tion of Leech’s
own attitude to¬
wards his work,
an attitude that
no one would
suspect who
looks only at the
results on Punch's
pages and else¬
where :—

Leech had a melan¬
choly in his nature,
especially in his
latter years, when
the strain of inces¬
sant production
made his fine organi¬
zation supersensitive
and apprehensive of
coming evil. Lord
Ossington, then
Speaker, once met Leech on the rail, and expressed
to him the hope that he enjoyed in his work some of
the gratification which it brought to others.

The answer was, “ l seem to myself to be
a man who has undertaken to walk a thou¬
sand miles in a thousand hours.” . . .

The brain busy when the hand was un¬
occupied, the mind abstracted and employed
when the man was supposed to be taking
holiday — even when at his meals. He
began to complain of habitual weariness
and sleeplessness, and was advised to rest
and try change of air.

This Volume xlix. contains Mr.
Punch’s obituary verses on Lord
Palmerston, who died October 18,
1865. Palmerston was always a
prime favourite of Mr. Punch’s—
here are two of the verses :—

He is down, and for ever ! The good light is ended.

In deep-dinted harness our Champion has died.
But tears should be few in a sunset so splendid,

And Grief hush her wail at the bidding of Pride.
*****

Etc., etc., etc.

*****

We trusted his wisdom, but love drew us nearer
Than homage we owed to his statesmanly art,
For never was statesman to Englishman dearer
Than he who had faith in the great English heart.
*****

Etc., etc., etc.

In earlier parts of this article we
have seen some excellent Punch-
cartoons in which Lord Palmerston
was the leading figure, and a main
cause of his great popularity at home and
of his success right up to the time of his

death may have
been (as Mr.
Justin McCarthy
says it was) that
“he was always
able with a good
conscience to
assure the English
people that they
were the greatest
and the best, the
only great and
good, people in
the world, be¬
cause he had long
taught himself to
believe this, and
had come to be¬
lieve it.” Palmer¬
ston honestly believed in his own nation, and
that nation honestly believed in Palmerston.

Pretty Innocent !— Little Jessie. “ Mamma ! Why do all the Tunnels
Smell so strong of Brandy? ”

[ The Lady in the middle never ivas/end of Children , and thinks she
nearer met a Child she disliked more than this one.]

9.-1865.

From the next Volume, No. 49,
which completes the year 1865, are
taken our present illustrations, Nos.
7, 8, 9, 10, and 13 — illustrations
Nos. 11 and 12 being two of the
six pictures which are here the sole
representatives of the two Punch
Volumes for the year 1866.

Early Piety. —Matilda Jdne (catching the Pastor often Sunday School)
“ Oh, Sir. please what would you charge to Christen my Doll ? ”

10.—1865.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

579

A Poser. — Mr. Brown. “That Wine, Sir, has
been in my Cellar Four-ancl-Twenty Years come last
Christmas ! Four—and—Twenty—Years—Sir ! ”
Mr. Green (desperately anxious to please). “ Has
it realty, Sir? What must it have been when it was
newt" II.—BY du maurier, 1866.

In my collection of autograph
letters there are two very interesting
(unpublished) Foreign Office des¬
patches written by Lord Palmerston,
as Secretary for Foreign Affairs, to
Lord Howard de Walden, the repre¬
sentative of this country at the Court
of Lisbon. I quote some passages
from one of these despatches, which
relate to a difficulty with Portugal on

out of Revenge for a first Blow inflicted by somebody else.
Every obstruction to commerce is an Evil, and the obstruction
created by the high Duties of a foreign Country is aggravated,
instead of being diminished, by the Imposition of high Duties at
Home. We might raise the Duty on Portugueze wine ; but
that would only be imposing a Burthen on the Consumers of
wine, and would afford no Relief to the Manufacturers whose
goods have been burthened in Portugal, unless it forced the
Portugueze to lower those Duties of which we complain ; and
perhaps the Measure might not succeed in accomplishing that
effect.

However, we must try to get Robinson and some others to
call upon us in the House of Commons to retaliate, and we
must talk big, and say that we may be forced to do so.

*******

Do you think there is any French Intrigue at the Bottom of
all this? I should not be very much surprized if there were.

Etc., etc., etc.

The Royal Salute. —Officer in charge of Battery (in a fetter lest the
Time of Firing should be a Second late). “Why, what arc you about,
No. 6? Why don’t you Serve the Sponge? ”

Bombardier McGuttle. “ Hoots Toots! Can na’ a Body Blaw their
Nose?" 13. — BY CHARLES KEENE, 1865.

' ?AIN PE Mer.—T he Titwillows take a “Bang dy Fameel,” or Family
Bath. 1 hey meet some Table - d’hote Acquaintances, consisting oi‘ an
Ancient Colonel of Cavalry in Retreat,” and his Wife and Daughter, who
offer to teach them the Principles of Natation. Mrs. T. doesn’t Like it at all.

12 .— BY DU MAURIER, 1866.

a matter of tariff—this was prior to the Free-Trade
policy of this country :—

F. O., 4 Feby, 1837.

My Dear Howard,

I do not know what we can do about the Portugueze
Tariff. We may threaten and bully, but it is doubtful whether
we can effectually retaliate ; and the Fact is that in such
matters Retaliation is merely hitting oneself a Second Blow,

This despatch not only illus¬
trates the plain, blunt, common
sense of Lord Palmerston, but it

An Awful Despot. — Recruit (appealingly ).
But, Sairgeant-’’

Drill Instructor (taking him up with terrible
abruptness and contempt). “ 1 But, Sairgeant! *
Not a War-r-d !. Bah ! I tell ye—ye can conceive
nothin’—and yair Mind’s made o’ Dair-rt ! ”

14.—1866.

580

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

FOR BETTER OR WORSE.

.VinuKE {Tie Vtazy Fatifr). " BLESS YE, MT CHILDREN '"

from Ireland. A remarkable
feat of seamanship and skill
is mentioned by Mr. F. E.
Baines in his book : “ Forty
Years at the Post Office,”
concerning the broken
cable that was replaced by
the new cable to which our

This cartoon illustrates the joining of the United States with the United Kingdom by a
submarine cable in the year 1866. 15.— by Charles keene.

also gives us an insight as to the way things
are managed behind the scenes : the Govern¬
ment was to put up “ Robinson and some
others ” to cry aloud in the House of
Commons for retaliation on Portugal, and
then the Government was to “talk big”
about being forced to retaliate on Portugal,
and the effect of such big talk upon Portugal
was, no doubt, to be duly watched. Did
the “ bluff” come off, I wonder?

Passing illustration No. 14—a very funny
picture—we come to No. 15, a cartoon by
Charles Keene, which illustrates the laying
of a new submarine cable between this
country and the
United States in
the year 1866.

This cartoon was
published on
August 11 th of
that year, and on
July 27, 1866, the
Great Eastern
steamship had
successfully com¬
pleted the laying
of this new cable
to America, an
earlier cable hav¬
ing broken in
1865, during the
process of laying
it, at a distance
of 1,050 miles

illustration No.

15 refers.

The broken
cable lay in
mid-ocean
where the water
was more than
two miles deep.

After the G?'eat

Eastern had _

done the work 16.—published in the year 1866.

shown in

Keene’s cartoon, she was at once steamed
back to where the former cable had broken,

the huge ship was
placed without
hesitation over
the broken cable
of 1865, and a
grapnel was let
down. Almost at
the first haul the
cable was caught
— in water over
two miles deep !
—and pulled on
board. The elec-
tricians cut it,
applied a speak¬
ing instrument to
the sound length,
and after the
silence of a year
the wire awoke to

—Aunt Cotistance. “What, Beatrix, not Kiss Mr.

The Pf.t Parson.-
Goodchild ? ”

Beatrix. “No! I won't."

Aunt Constance. “ What ! not when he Asks you himself?
Beatrix. “No! NO!! NO!!!"

Chorus of Aunts. “ What an Extraordinary Child !! ”

17.— BY DU MAURIER, 1866.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

58 i

sand at the other end of the revolving bar.
This refers to the defeated efforts of Bright
(with Gladstone and others) to carry a Bill
for electoral reform, which caused the resig-

life, and the Atlantic Company’s office
in Valentia, in Kerry, on the west
coast of Ireland, spoke through the
recovered wire to the Great Eastern
in mid-ocean, 1,050 miles distant. A
ray of light waving to and fro in a
darkened cabin was the reward they
had toiled for and secured.

No. 16 is one of a series of Calli¬
graphic Mysteries published by Pinich
in 1866. To read this hold the page
on a level with your eye.

Pictures 17 to 20 bring us to No.
21, which is Mr. Linley Sambourne’s
first contribution to Punch. This was
published April 27, 1867, and it

Physical Strength v. Intellect.— Tom (who has been “ shut up ” by
the Crichton-like accomplishments ofhis cousin Augustus). “I tan’t Sing,
and I tan’t peak Frenss—but I tan Punss your ’eel ! ’

20. —BY DU MAURIER, 1867.

represents John Bright tilting at the mark
“ Reform ” on the quintain, and being
knocked down by the swinging bag of

21.—THIS SKETCH (FORMING THE INITIAL-LETTER t) IS
MR. LINLEY SAMBOURNE’S FIRST “PUNCH” DRAWING.
PUBLISHED APRIL 27, 1867.

Fearful Ordeal for Jones. —Study of an Italian Signora, singing
11 Roberto, tn che actoro." She is rapt in Dramatic Inspiration, and as she
Sings she unconsciously fixes her ardent Gaze on the bashful Jones, who
happens to he standing near. Jones’s Agony is simply inconceivable.

19.— BY DU MAURIER, 1867.

nation of the Liberal Ministry, and
then Disraeli, as Conservative Leader
of the House of Commons, carried
the Reform Bill of 1867, and by so
doing completely took the wind out
of the sails of his political opponents.

Nos. 22 and 23 are by Charles
Keene, who at this time (1867) had
had for seven years a seat at the
famous Punch dinner-table. Keene
was an outside contributor to Punch
from 1851 to i860; he received his
first invitation to “ the table ” on
February 6, i860.

Keene had the habit of working
late at night, and Mr. G. S. Layard
in his “ Life ” of the artist narrates

Intelligent Pet. —“ Ma, dear, what do they .
Play the Organ so Loud for, when ‘ Church-’ is
over? Is it to Wake us up?”

18. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1867.

PROS AND CONS.

he Government Reform
Bill will put a stop to
agitation, and settle
the question perma¬
nently.

The Government Re¬
form Bill will distract
the country, open the
door to renewed agi¬
tation, and do nothing
to settle the question.

The Government Re¬
form Bill will add no
number worth speak¬
ing of to the existing
constituencies.

The Go vern ment Re¬
form Bill will swamp
the middle class voters,
with the ignorant, the
venal, and the vicious.

The Government Re¬
form Bill will open the
franchise to all who
arc really anxious to
possess it, while it
excludes the vagrant and thoughtless residuum, who are unworthy of
the suffrage, or careless about its acquisition. ___

5 82

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

that he was much
disturbed by cats,
which prowled
and squalled
about the win¬
dow of his studio.

Keene retaliated
on the cats :—

Setting his-wits to
work, he contrived
a toy weapon of
offence, over which
the big man showed
the boyish enthu¬
siasm which was a
characteristic
through life. Mr.

John Clayton re-
members’well paying
him a visit soon after
he had perfected this
instrument, and finding him energetically practising,
so as to arrive at an accuracy of aim. He dilated
with much pride upon his ingenious invention.
Breaking off the side pieces of a steel pen, he
fastened the centre harpoon-shaped piece on to

is by George Du
Maurier. This
fantastic drawing
is one of a set
illustrating poor
Jenkins’s night¬
mare, originating
from a hansom-
cab-accident de¬
picted by Du
Maurier in Punch
from February i,
1868. After let¬
ting his fancy
play most extra¬
ordinary tricks,
the artist con¬
cludes the set of
pictures with
one entitled “ Jenkins’s Nightmare finally
resolves itself into a beatific vision of
triumph and revenge.” In this picture,
published February 29, 1868, Du Maurier
introduces, incidentally, the name little
billee which, in 18.95, was a g a ^ n use< 3 by
Du Maurier for the hero in “Trilby”—-a
curious coincidence just now found that is
of some interest to the host of Trilby-lovers.
You may see this “Little Billee ’’.picture on
page 89 of Volume liv. of Punch.

No. 26 is by Keene, and No. 27 by Du
Maurier. The Cockney in the latter picture
is evidently hesitating whether to “ give
away ” the hunted hare who has just appealed

Artful—Very. — Mary. “Don’t keep a Screougin’ o’ me, John ! ”
John. “ Wh’oi bean’t a Screougin’ on yer ! ”

Mary (ingenuously). “ Well, y’ can i’ y’ like, John ! ”

22. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1867.

A Passage of Arms. — Hairdresser. “ ’Air’s very Dry,
Sir! ”

Customer (who knows what's coming). “ I like it Dry ! ”

Hairdresser (after awhile , again advancing to the attack).
“ ’Ead’s very Scurfy, Sir ! ”

Customer (still cautiously retiring). “ Ya-as, I prefer it
Scurfy ! ” [Assailant gives in defeated .]

23.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1867.

a small shaft. This he wrapped round with tow,
and propelled by blowing from a tube into which
it fitted. The electrifying effect produced by these
missiles upon his victims, without permanently in¬
juring them, delighted him vastly, and he described
graphically how they would come along the leads
outside his window outlined en silhouette, and how
the first moment they were struck by the little arrows
they would stand for an instant stock still, whilst
every hair on their bodies would stand out sharp and
separate against the sky, like quills upon the fretful
porcupine, and then how, with a yell, they would
leap headlong out of sight into the darkness.

No. 24 is by E. J. Ellis, one of Mr.
Punch’s artists of thirty years ago, and No. 25

Evidently. — First Youth (aged five years). “Ah! But
s’pose he was to Run Away ? ”

Second Youth (aged ditto). “ Run Away? Why, bless you,
a Child might Manage him ! ”

24. —BY E. J. ELLIS, 1867.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

583

to him for a merciful silence, and
one would like to know how the
incident ended—one’s sympathies are
certainly with the hare.

A very famous Punch -joke is shown
in No. 28. This “ Bang went Sax-
pence ” was drawn by Charles Keene,
and published December 5, 1868.
Even in its present reduced size the
drawing shows very clearly the in¬
tense earnestness of expression of
the returned Scot, who is narrating
to his very seriously-interested friend
the reason why he has so suddenly
cut short his visit to London :
“ E-eh, it’s just a ruinous Place,
that ! Mun, a had na’ been the-erre

Dear, Dear Boy !— George. “ Oh ! Shouldn’t I just like to see Somebody
in that Den, Aunt! ”

Serious Aunt. “ Ye-es. Daniel, I suppose, dear ? ”

George. “Oh, no, Aunt ; I mean * Old Twigsby,’ our Head-Master f ' ”

26.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1868.

Ever since poor Jenkins met with that Accident in the Hansom Cab last
fortnight, his nocturnal Slumbers have been agitated by a constantly
recurring Nightmare.. He dreams that a more than usually appalling Cab-
Horse bolts with him jn Hanway Passage (Oxford Street) ; and cannot quite
make out whether he is riding in the Cab, or whether it is he who stands,
powerless to move, right in front of the Infuriated Animal.

25.—BY DU MAURIER, 1868.

far as his estimate bears upon the value of
his contribution, it must be admitted that
his judgment is generally sound. But of
the accepted jokes from unattached con¬
tributors, it is a notable fact that at least
seventy-five per cent, come from North of
the Tweed. Dr. Johnson, ponderous enough
in his own humour, admitted that “much
may be made of a Scotchman if he be
caught young”; and it is probable that to
him, as well as to Walpole—who suggested
that proverbial surgical operation—is owing
much of the false impression entertained in
England as to Scottish appreciation of
humour and of “ wut.” .... Certain it
is that Punch is keenly appreciated in the
North. In one of the public libraries of
Glasgow it has been ascertained that it
was second favourite of all the papers there
examined by the public ; and it has been
asserted that in one portion of the moors
and waters gillies have more than once been

abune Twa Hoours when— Bang —went Sax-
pence I! ! ”

Keene received inspiration from Scotland’
for many of his
jokes, although
he himself was
an Englishman,
born at Hornsey
of English
parents. Mr.

Spielmann states
in his “ History
of Punch,” apro¬
pos of Punch's
Scotch jokes :—

In the United
Kingdom the joke-
contributor is, as a
rule, a disinterested
person, usually seek¬
ing neither pay nor
recognition ; and so

heard to say : “Eh, but that’s a guid ane ! Send
that to Charlie Keene ! ”

Even a casual acquaintance with Punch
will suffice to
show the genuine
humour of Scotch
“wut,” and in
reading Mr. Spiel-
mann’s interest¬
ing statement
just quoted, that
at least 75 per
cent, of the jokes
accepted by
Punch from un¬
attached contri¬
butors come
from North of
the Tweed, we
must bear in
mind that these

Cockney in a Fix.— The Hunted Hare (as plain as eye can speak).
Oh, Sir, Please , Sir, Pray don’t Holler ! Give a poor Creature a Chance ! ”
27. —BY DU MAURIER, 1868.

5^4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

are the words of the leading authority
on Punch , whose delightful “ History ”
stands without a rival in all matters
that touch the life and chronicles of
Mr. Punch.

No. 29 is a cartoon by Tenniel
which relates to an agitation in the
year 1868 for granting to women the
right to vote at Parliamentary elec¬
tions. Mr. Punch’s attitude in the
matter is clearly seen, and the Revis¬
ing Barrister (as Hamlet ) exclaims to
the female vote-claimant, “ Get thee
to a—Nursery, go ! Farewell ! ”

Despite a few notable exceptions
the male mind is now, as in 1868
when No. 29 was published, unable
to see wisdom in granting the suffrage
to women, and during a recent display
of political activity in one of the

Thrift. —Peebles Body (to Townsman who was
supposed to be in London on a visit). “ E—eh,
Mac ! ye’re sune Hame again ! ”

Mac. “ E-eh, it’s just a ruinous Place, that!
Mun, a had na’ been the-erre abune Twa Hoours
when— Bang —went Saxpcnce ! ! ! ”

28.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1868.

London suburbs, an incident came
to my knowledge which is closely
akin to that depicted in No. 29.

A worthy matron had after much
solicitation consented to join the
Primrose League and to take an
active part in the canvassing for
votes that was in progress, and in
the instruction of the working-man
voter, including the guidance of
him along the right path. Accord¬
ingly, this good lady set out one
afternoon to make her first attempt
to influence the working-man’s vote.
She. herself, I ought to say, was of

REVISED-AND CORRECTED.

Revising Barrister (Hamlet). “Get thee to a— Nursery ^ go!
Farewell! ” [Shakspeare (slightly altered).

29.— THIS CARTOON BY TENNIEL RELATES TO AN AGITATION IN 1868
FOR GIVING TO WOMEN A VOTE IN PARLIAMENTARY ELECTIONS.

a decidedly “ Conservative ” habit, of the good
old-fashioned rigid sort, with a vast reverence for
cast-iron phrases and for dogmas of all kinds, and
for any other sign of authority, with, also, a
special tone in her voice for what she termed
“the lower classes.” This excellent dame walked
bravely, though nervously, up to the door of an
artisan’s cottage, and on knocking was admitted

A Gentle Vegetarian. —“ ’Morning, Miss ! Who’d ever think, looking at
us two, that you devoured Bullocks and Sheep, and / never took anything
but Rice?” 30.— by du maurier, 1869.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

5*5

and allowed to stand, and some¬
what haltingly expressed her views
of the political situation to a brawny
labourer who, at his ease, sat smok¬
ing. When the exhortation came
to an end — there had been no
interruption from the man — the
labourer quietly turned his head
towards the Primrose dame and
ejaculated, “ W’y don’t yer go ’ome
and mend yer children’s socks?”
The dame turned tail, hurried home,
and declared that nothing should
ever again induce her to go can¬
vassing among the lower classes.
The man had said to her, with
good effect, what Mr. Punch’s “ Re¬
vising Barrister ” says in No. 29,

The Duel to the Death. —Suggested to French
Journalists as being still more certain and satisfactory
than their present method of settling Political
Differences. 31.— by du maurier, 1869.

although not in Shakespearean
phrase : “ Get thee to a Nursery.
Go ! Farewell! ”

No. 30 is a rather disconcerting
picture for vegetarians to contem¬
plate, and No. 31 is another draw¬
ing by Du Maurier, that shows
French journalists how they may
make sure of a fatal end to a duel,
and at the same time delight a large
audience. Vive rhonneur !

No. 32, also by Du Maurier, is

Vol. xvii.—74«

A Little Christmas Dream. —Mr. L. Figuier, in the Thesis-which pre¬
cedes his interesting Work on the World before the Flood, condemns the
practice of awakening the Youthful Mind to Admiration by means of Fables
and Fairy Tales, and recommends, in lieu thereof, the Study of the Natural
History of the World in which we live. Fired by this Advice, we have tried
the Experiment on our Eldest, an imaginative Boy of Six. We have cut off
his “ Cinderella ” and his “ Puss in Boots,” and introduced him to some of
the more peaceful Fauna of the Preadamite World, as they appear Restored
in Mr. Figuier’s Book.

The poor Boy has not had a decent Night’s Rest ever since !

32.—BY DU MAURIER, 1868.

a remarkable piece of fantastic imagination prompted
by M. Louis Figuier’s work on the World before the
Flood, and illustrating the effect upon the artist’s
young son of the treatment advocated by Figuier.

Charles Keene shows in No. 33 the startling effect
upon a countryman who, in 1869, met at dusk in a

Awful Summut —That Tummas met as he was a-comin Whoam ‘ Ta
Looked like a Man a Ridm’ pon Nawthin ! ”

33.— SUGGESTED TO CHARLES KEENE BY THE HIGH BICYCLE OF 1869.

5 86

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

and vitality, even in his volumes of
many years ago, may be that he
singles out for illustration, in his
cartoons especially, those incidents
of national or social life which are
part and parcel of the actual life of
nations or of society, and which,
therefore, have a constant tendency
to recur in a later generation. Be
this as it may, it is a fact that, look
where you like in the back volumes
of Punch , you are sure to see a
strong cartoon that stands out quite
as fresh as if it had been just

To Sufferers from Nervous Depression. —It’s very well to
go down for Six Weeks into the Country by yourself, to give up
Tobacco and Stimulants, and to Live the Whole Day, so to speak, in
the Open Air ; but all this will do you no Good, unless you Culti¬
vate a Cheerful Frame of Mind, and take a Lively View of Things.
34.—1869.

quiet lane an “ awful summut,” which closer
inspection would have shown to be a man

Philanthropic Coster (who has been crying ‘ ‘ Perry-wink —
wink — wink!" till he's hoarse — and no buyers). “I wonder
what the po’r unfort’nate Creeters in these 'ere Low Neigh-
b’r’oods do Live on !! ”

36. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1869.

drawn to illustrate a topic of the present
day.

For example, one turns over the leaves of
_____ ___ Volume lvi. (January to June, 1869) and

Embarrassing. — Nervous Spinster (to wary Old Bachelor). finds a I enniel-CartOOn, entitled U Prevention

“Oh, Mr. Marigold, I’m so Frightened ! May I take hold of
your Hand while we’re going through this Tunnel?”

35.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1869.

riding a high spider bicycle—a sight
not then familiar to the countryman.

The two Volumes of Punch for
the year 1869, which are here repre¬
sented by ten pictures, including
Nos. 34 to 40, contain some car¬
toons which illustrate the perpetual
freshness of Mr. Punch’s ideas.
Over and over again as one looks
through the Volumes of Punch one
is impressed by the vitality of the
work and with its peculiar and
almost uncanny quality of applica¬
bility to current events. Perhaps
one cause of Mr. Punch’s freshness

Little Biffin, who in his Early Days has had a deal of Experience in White
Mice, invents a Velocipede, Airy, Light, Commodious, and entirely free
from Danger. 37.—1869.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

5*7

events of present times, to which
the Lord Chief J ustice has lately
referred in terms of unmeasured
censure.

We turn to the last volume for
1869 (July to December), and
passing over many cartoons that
actually speak to us of present-day
affairs, we see on page 99 (Septem¬
ber 11, 1869) a Tenniel, entitled
“ Well rowed All ! ” with the
Umpire (Mr. Punch) saying to
the two oarsmen, John Bull and

Nature’s Logic. — Papa. “ How is it, Alice, that you never get a Prize at
School ? ”

Mamma. “And that your Friend, Louisa Sharp, gets so Many?”

Alice (innocently). “Ah ! Louisa Sharp has got such Clever Parents ! ”

38.— by du maurier, 1869. [Tableau.

Better Than Cure,” illustrating the application of the
“ cat ” to the shoulders of a ruffian of that Hooligan
type of roughs who have quite lately been un¬
pleasantly active.

A few pages further on (January 30, 1869) you see
a powerful Tenniel entitled “ The Chambermaid of
the Vatican,” who says, as she looks over the stair-
rail towards a group of very advanced High Church
clerics, “ I’ve warmed their beds for ’em; why don’t
they light their candles, and follow me ? ” [to Rome].
Only the other day, we read in the newspapers of
Rome’s exultation over the present unhappy dissen¬
sions in the Anglican Church, arising from the same
cause that in 1869 prompted Tenniel to draw this
cartoon.

Turn over a few more pages and you see, apropos
of swindling company-mongers, a ruined shareholder
supporting his grief-stricken wife as he says to her in
court: “Yes,

they are com¬
mitted for trial;
but we, my child,
to Hard Labour
for Life ! ” Com¬
ment is unneces¬
sary as to the
applicability of
this cartoon of
1869 to the com¬
pany - promoting

RECOLLECTIONS FROM ABROAD. (FREE TRANSLATION.)

ROW IS A BELGIAN KETAMINET (IN THREE TABLEAUX.)

On the Face of It.— Pretty Teacher. “Now,
Johnny Wells, can you Tell me what is Meant by a
Miracle ? ”

Johnny. “Yes, Teacher. Mother says if you dun’t
Marry new Parson, ’twull be a Murracle ! ”

39.—1869.

Jonathan, who are just shaking hands
after a race at Henley : “ Ha, dear
Boys! You’ve
only to pull to¬
gether, to lick all
the world ! ”

The fact is that
Mr. Punch is at
the least a three¬
fold personality
—a clean wit, a
fine artist, and
a prophet who
“ sees ” true.

‘ Now then ! you be Offl!” “ What !! you Wont / ” “ Then Stay where

‘ I shan’t! ” “ No ! ! ” you are ! ! ”

40.— BY DU MAURIER, 1869.

(To be continued .)

T is not long since the Rajah
of Rhatameh took courage of
his passion and murdered Mr.
Tinspire, the British Resident,
sending his head in a biscuit-
box to his wife; yet the
occurrence is hardly remembered. I, John
Quirke, captain in the Bengal Staff Corps,
have not forgotten—cannot forget it. And
this is why.

I was in command of the Sepoy company
forming Mr. Tinspirels escort when we fell
into the trap which Rhatameh had laid. I
was cut down, and thought to have been
destroyed then and there, but instead was
carried not ungently to the Rajah’s palace,
which was rather fort than mansion. He
invited me to drink tea with him, and this I
did, half expecting to find it poisoned, but
unwilling to let him think that I cared over¬
much. No symptom of irritation followed
on the first cup, so I drank a second, and
Rhatameh and I chatted pleasantly away,
for the most part about polo, at which he
was an expert and I wished to be.

He made me forget I was his prisoner, not
unlikely under sentence of death, as he
described to me with all a sportsman’s eye to
detail how best to hold up a pony’s head
when making a cross-drive. From ponies
we came to horses, and sending for his
Wazir battle-steed he called me to admire his
points, a thing I had no difficulty in doing,
for they were patent. After this he showed
me his sporting armoury, containing every
species of weapon, from a saloon pistol to an

elephant gun. Comparatively ignorant about
cattle, here I felt myself quite at home, and
soon picked out the choicest items of his
collection. With a Mannlicher repeater
between us, we discussed grips and balances,
cams and tumbling-blocks.

“You have shot tigers?” he queried.

“ Five,” said I.

“ Thirty have fallen to my gun,” he boasted,
and in my heart I said he was a liar, for
there were few great beasts in that country,
and the rulers of Rhatameh only went
abroad to make war. There was an explana¬
tion. “That sport costs too much money;
every tiger I kill has to be sent up from
Bengal. The dealers ask me 2,000 rupees
each, and will do nothing until they are
paid. ... I despise the Bengalese — they
are all tradesmen. They dare not face the
king of the jungle : they entrap him and
send him to me to be slain—and then they
ask me for money, from me who did them
this service. I say I despise them : they are
afraid of the English. I am not afraid of the
English. I have beaten the English at polo
and in battle. You, an English officer, are
my prisoner. I could spit in your face and
you dare not hinder me. . . . But you, with
your strange European mind, would say I
was no gentleman, and to that I cannot listen.
Therefore, I shall be gracious towards you.”

I nearly grinned at the Rajah during this
speech, for, hopeless as then would be my
chance of ultimate escape, I knew my hand
was heavy enough to shatter His Highness’s
skull if he attempted bodily insult.

THE GOLDEN TIGER.

589

Ignoring the side issue, I asked if he had
shot lately. “Not tigers,” he told me, with
a suspicion of malice in his tone.

“You have no tigers now?”

He stared me abruptly in the face. “ Yes,
one : the Sacred Tiger. Have you not heard
of him ? ”

I cudgelled my brains. “The Golden
Tiger of Khandara. Is that the beast ? ”

£< Kohilu, the
Sacred Tiger of
Khandara, is of
ruddy gold,” quoth
the Rajah.

“Is it a tiger
really, your High -
ness ? ”

“ Think you it to
be a mule?” he
retorted. “ Would
you see for your¬
self?”

“If your High¬
ness would bring
me,” I replied, and
his crafty smile
showed that he
took my meaning.

“ I will bring
you,” he acqui¬
esced. “ Kohilu
will not harm his
master, but I can¬
not promise you
your safety.”

“That I will
answer for, if your
Highness will per¬
mit.”

He held up his
hand warningly.

“You may take no
weapon. Whatever
shall come to pass,
the Sacred Tiger
of Khandara must
not be injured.”

This was a stumbling-block for me, but
although he looked me through and through
I did not let him see it.

“I quite understand, your Royal High¬
ness,” I made answer, very quietly. “ Sacred
vessels are easy to crack, hard to replace.”

“Silence!” ordered the Rajah, impe¬
riously. “ Keep your irony until you are
facing Kohilu. Then say what you will
unless, indeed, something we cannot foresee
should stop you.”

Catching up his humour, I replied,

“ Killing or being killed is my business. If
I cannot do the one, I am not unprepared
to submit to the other.”

“Wait,” said the Rajah, again. “ It is easy
to talk.”

I bowed and declared myself at his
disposal.

The Rajah took from his armoury a large
gold instrument, not unlike an elephant goad
fitted with a huge
corkscrew handle.

He answered my
questioning glance
with the words,
“ My magic wand,”
and looked so un¬
utterably conceited,
that I would have
given half my
chance of escape
for the kicking of
him.

He was not a
very powerful man,
and, judging that
his wand was
heavier than the
name implied, I
offered to carry it
for him, but he
waved me back;
nor did he trust it
to a menial: we
were to pay our
visit to the Sacred
Tiger absolutely
without attendants
of any kind. This
did not astonish
me, for it was
natural that only
few persons of the
State should be
allowed to enter the
Holy of Holies,
but it made me
imagine that the
object of our visit would be so chained up that
he could not overpower us by his greeting.

The temple of the sacred beast was out¬
side the precincts of the palace, and, there
being no steps, the entrance was approached
by a long stone ramp of gentle incline. Up
this I walked with a step so eager that I
was begged to tarry by the Rajah.

That potentate, marking the few glances I
cast around, called upon me to admire the
view. “ See Khandara and die,” said he:
whether he chose those words with special

“ MY MAGIC WAND.”

59o

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

intention I am not sure. As I said, we
were without escort; looking back, it seems
to me that had I here overpowered my
companion I could have bid strongly for
my liberty, but, oddly enough, my mind was
so full of the new adventure that the idea of
flight did not occur to me. At that moment
I believe that I would have accepted the
intervention of British troops quite as un¬
willingly as the Rajah himself. What 1
wanted was the tiger—that seen, there was
leisure to think of my personal safety. The
fact of the matter was that the Rajah had
nettled my self¬
esteem, and I would
have faced a family
of cats, naked, in
the arena rather than
flinch before his eyes.

The outer gate of
the temple was
opened by unseen
hands as we ap¬
proached, and swung
to again when we had
passed through.

Great bars descend¬
ing from the walls
secured it on the
inside. We were
now in a paved court¬
yard, guarded by very
high, embattled walls.

Behind us was the
gatehouse, which had
no visible door or
window, and in front
was a large edifice
built in a gaudy
rococo style, which
hurt my eyes so that
I do not care to de¬
scribe it.

“ Does the poor
beast never try to
run away ? ” I asked,
on the spur of the
moment.

“No,” answered
the Rajah, thought¬
fully. “He never
does ” : for once he
did not take my meaning.

Arrived at the entrance to the temple
proper, I noticed that it was closed by heavy
swing doors without bolt, lock, or bar of any
kind, but so constructed as to open only
inwards.

The Rajah paused, and laying down his

burden, produced a printed document and a
stylographic pen.

“You are sure of yourself? ” he asked.
“Sure,” I affirmed.

“ Then sign this,” he returned, and handed
me pen and paper.

I read : “ This is to certify that I,

—here there was a blank for the name and
other particulars—“enter the temple of
Kohilu the Sacred Tiger of Khandara, of
my own volition, at my own wish and under
the protection of my own God. Signed

day of 189 .”

“ I will sign all
but the last phrase,”
I declared. “I do
not expect Providence
to interest Himself
in my foolhardiness.”

The Rajah de¬
murred. “All the
others have signed,”
said he.

The words were
dark, and it was with
something of an effort
that I modulated my
reply : “ The more
reason, your High¬
ness, for an excep¬
tion.”

“I do not make
exceptions,” said he.

“Then,” I sug¬
gested, nonchalantly,
“ let us go back.”

“ Never,” he rap¬
ped out, abruptly.

“Then,” said I, in
as nearly as possible
the same tone as
before, “ let us go
forward.”

This irritated him
to the serving of my
purpose, and crum¬
pling up the paper in
his hand, he threw
his weight against the
doors and opened
them wide enough
for a man to pass.

“ Enter,” he cried, with the voice of a
challenge.

“ Thank you,” I said. And with a final
muster of my pride, in I strode, in my
imagination buffeting death.

My nose received the first impression :
there was no smell. Rather should I say

“ ‘ ENTER,’ HE CRIED, WITH THE VOICE OF A
CHALLENGE.”

THE GOLDEN TIGER.

S9i

the penetrating effluvia of savage beasts was
wanting or had been overcome by the odour
of incense. The temple of the Sacred Tiger
smelt like the sanctuary of a Catholic church
rather than the cage of a wild animal. Yet a
cage it undeniably was. Just clear of the
doors swung fully back were the bars, iron,
coated thickly with gold and of ancient
design, but I suspect recent manufacture,
for the gate which was open had very
modern bolts and locks. The place was
strewn with the litter of an ossuary. Lying
in the middle was
a long thin, white
bone, unmistakably
the femur of a
woman, and not of
a woman indigenous
to the soil; but I
saw no tiger or
animal of any kind.

A thought flashed
upon me that the
tiger of Khandara
was Starvation, and
that I had been
lured here to die
like a rat in a trap.

I turned to make a
frantic effort to
battle my way out,
and found the
Rajah at my elbow
quietly enjoying my
trepidation.

“ I thought,” said
he, slowly, “you
wished to meet
death.”

“ Visible, know-
able death, will¬
ingly,” said I.

“ Death sleeps,”
answered the Rajah.

“ He is within.”

Following the
motion of his hand,

I saw in the farther wall of the den
another opening without a door, and leading
apparently into darkness.

“ I shall lead Kohilu forth,” said the
Rajah. And I was impressed by his dignity
as he stepped into the cage and out at the
farther opening as jauntily as I might enter
my loose box.

Already marvelling when he passed into
the pitchy darkness, I was really startled to
see that darkness ‘turn to light as .if his
presence were effulgent : although my

common sense quickly suggested that many
men have electric light in their stables.
A fantastic shadow was thrown on the
wall, as if a . child in cap and frock
were prodding a prediluvian monster with
a corkscrew.

All the time I heard a grunting like the
modified rumble of a donkey-engine. The
sense of mystification changed from the
ludicrous to the unbearable, and I was on
the point of following the Rajah, when the
noise ceased and the light simultaneously
went out.

I drew a long
breath. There was
a chink of metal :
the Rajah reap¬
peared, leading by a
gold chain, not the
thickness of a watch-
guard, a gigantic
tiger, thirteen hands
at the shoulder —
the height of a polo-
pony — and gorge¬
ously marked.

It took no notice
of me, stalking
r;ound the cage at
the end of its lead
with the dull pre¬
cision of a circus-
horse. It struck me
at once that it
moved like no
jungle creature I
had ever seen, with
its sharp angular
steps and its tail
dropped behind;
but it was, none the
less, formidable-
looking, and my
faith in the Rajah’s
intrepidity increased.

The tour of the
arena twice made, the
Rajah, following the beast, gently laid his
hand on its withers, and the beast instantly
stopped, falling into a statuesque attitude.

Said the Rajah, “ Behold, Kohilu ! ”

I smiled in return and, approaching,
made bold to stroke the beast. The Rajah
motioned me back : “ Remember, Kohilu
my Familiar is Death.” He appealed to the
thing. “What art thou, oh, Heaven-sent
one ? ”

“ Tod,” said a voice from Kohilu’s inwards.

“ Kohilu,” explained the Rajah, rather

KOHILU ! ”

59 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

naively, “ thinks you are a German.” But
the Rajah over-estimated my credulity. I
preferred to draw my own conclusions, and
began to suspect I could deal with both
Monarch and “ Familiar.”

“ Kohilu is a man-eater ? ” I asked.

“ Kohilu eats nothing else.”

“ Yet his coat is not mangy.”

“The covering of the immortals cannot
decay.”

“ He has not fed this morning.” I pointed
to the dry bones underfoot.

“ The day is yet young,” returned the
Rajah, oracularly.

There was a little pause, and passing his
hand again over the animal’s withers he
caressed him.

“A quiet brute is Kohilu,” I said at last.

“ Think you so ? ” snorted the Rajah, his
fingers fumbling under the long hair.

“I do,” said I, and, choosing my spot,
carefully dropped my hand on the brute’s
muzzle.

The great lower jaw opened and shut with
a convulsive snap, but my fingers were well
out of reach, and I did not remove my
hand.

The Rajah changed colour, and the angry
look came again in his eyes.

“Awake, Kohilu,” he cried, and, loosing
the animal, sprang backwards. The immense
fore-paws flew up and caught me a blow in
the chest that grounded me, and the beast
leaped high in the air, its tail just clearing
my head. Realizing my danger, I scrambled
to my feet. The tiger was bounding round
the place with huge upward leaps, more like
the movement of a kangaroo than any other
beast I knew of. It would rise 12ft. or
14ft. into the air; in falling, smite the ground
viciously with its tail, and bound forward
again.

All the while its claws worked incessantly,
its eyes shone with fire, and its jaws snapped
and snapped. In its flight it scattered the
bones and litter in all directions, but it did
not approach the Rajah very closely. Seeing
this, I knew my chance was to keep at His
Highness’s back until these antics ceased.
With what ease I could pretend to I lounged
over to him and took my place as it were
casually. The animal’s bounds grew even
higher, and the crash of its concussions
with the earth became deafening. “ Now
is Kohilu a tiger or not ?” shouted the
Rajah.

“Your Highness knows best,” I answered.
“But this I will say-—Kohilu came not from
Bengal.”

“ Kohilu came from Heaven.”

“ Then,” said I, firmly, “ Heaven is in
England.”

“ In England ! Infidel dog ! ”

“ If Kohilu came from Heaven, then
Heaven is Sheffield.”

“You lie ! Kohilu never saw England.”

“ Nuremberg, then ? ”

“Kohilu’s eyes have never beheld Europe.”

“Kohilu’s eyes are electric lamps,” I
answered ; and added, point-blank, “ the fact
is, your Highness, you are a child and
Kohilu is your toy.”

The words were yet on my lips when he
sprang at me and flung me down right in the
way the beast was coming, but I caught
him to me and dragged him also down,
determined I should not die alone. The
beast fell short, and again leaped over us,
the near hind claw tearing away the Rajah’s
turban as it took off.

Struggling, we rolled back to safer ground.
The Rajah slipped out his poniard, but ere
he could use it I snatched up that same long
white bone which had caught my eye on
entering the cage, and I knocked him sense¬
less.

I had a mind to experience with his body
the fate which he had intended to be mine,
but what I can only, call over-civilized senti¬
mentality deterred me from doing so ; and
having removed his weapons, gagged and
bound him, I sat down on his chest and
reflected that it was high time to consider
some means of escape.

Meanwhile the tiger bounded and jumped,
sometimes swaying unpleasantly near. One
conclusion I came to while watching—that
the circular movement was governed by the
action of the tail, and that this was an inter¬
mittent control effected by many incalculable
trifles.

1 must have been sitting so for over an
hour before the mechanical force of the toy
showed signs of slackening ; from first to last
the performance must have occupied nearly
three hours. If it could hold on so long at
high pressure, it seemed pretty clear that it
might have sustained its first walking pace
for a whole day.

So I argued as, with feebler and feebler
bounds, the contrivance worked itself out.
What struck my humour was that the last
movements were accompanied by a buzzing
sound that might have come from the
mechanism of a clockwork train. And this
mental vision gave me the clue to the nature
of the Rajah’s “ magic wand.” It was an
exaggerated clock-key, no more.

THE GOLDEN TIGER.

593

When the thing had quite run out, I
penetrated into the inner chamber in search
of this key, and with the aid of a match
found the electric light button and switched
it on. The place was empty save for a few
simple tools in a rack, and the object of my
quest leaning against the wall: that it had,
however, at one time been the home of a real
tiger, I judged from its shape to be probable.

Returning to the toy I subjected it, some¬
what gingerly I must confess, to examination.
In the centre of the chest I found the wind¬
ing hole and inserted the key : I had not
given it a quarter turn when the great jaw
crashed down on my head, half stunning me.
fortunately the other limbs did not move,
and the mouth shut again after the second
snap. Clearly I had to find the method of
controlling the engine before I dared give it
power. I passed my hand over the withers,
and found there seven small circular knobs
such as are attached to wash-house pipes.
Not without some misgivings I
climbed up on the animaPs back
to look at them. Brushing the hair
aside, I read on each respectively :

“ Rechies Vorbein, Linkes Vorbein,
Hinterbeine, Kinnenbachen, Schwa?iz,

An gen, and Zerstoning.”

The certainty of liberty sprang
up within me, for I knew I could,
manage the machine with these
handles. Did not Rechtes Vorbein
and Linkes Vorbein mean off and
near fore-legs; Hintei'beine , hind¬
legs ; Kinnenbachen , jaw; Schwanz ,
tail; and Augen , eyes?. . . . But
what did Zerstdrung mean ? My
thin German vocabulary did not
contain the word. I had seen
the animal use its legs, jaw, and
tail, and its eyes light up, but
could think of nothing else. 1
felt the handle : unlike the others
it was turned off. There was no
time for further consideration, so
I turned off the others and de¬
scended to wind up the monster.

It was a stiff job, and took me
nearly twenty minutes. When it
was finished I gave the three
handles controlling the legs each
a very slight twist. With a jerk
the beast began to move, and,
being uncontrolled by the action
of its tail, bounced straight into
the wall with a tremendous thud
which shook the whole building:
there its limbs still kept on work-

Yol. xvii,—75.

ing. Fearful of an upset, I jumped up and
turned off the machinery.

I was now in a great dilemma to know
how to get its head round again, the thing
being much too heavy for my mere strength
to be of any avail. To set it going again
might overturn it, and that would be the
ruin of my scheme.

1 decided to try the effect of the off fore¬
paw alone, and set it gently in motion. This
produced no useful result, merely causing
the animal to vibrate, so I turned it off and
tried the tail, which made the apparatus rock
violently, but neither did any good. Not to
be beaten without a struggle, I tried both
tail and leg together. This was the secret :
the beast lumbered round, carrying away
great chunks of masonry with its paws.

1 )etermined to thoroughly master the steer¬
ing-gear before going any further, as soon as
the thing was clear I mounted on its back and
cautiously set it going. When I thought 1

' I HJ.CMOVEIJ HIS OUTER GARMENTS AND J’UI.I.KO THEM OEf
OVER MY UNIFORM.”

594

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

had room to turn, I stopped the near
fore-leg, with the consequence that the
beast swung sharply round, pitching me
over his shoulder on to the still prostrate
Rajah, but for whose intervention I might
have broken my neck. I was on my feet
just in time to save the beast from crashing
into the wall.

Mounting again, I continued my experi¬
ments, with the result that in half an hour’s
time I was able to describe the figure of
eight, and perform other exercises of the
riding-school. When I thought myself fairly
efficient, I again wound the animal up to the
full, worked it into position for departure,
and turned my attention to the Rajah. He
had recovered consciousness, and regarded
me with considerable dislike as I removed
his outer garments and pulled them on over
my uniform, along with his sword and other
accoutrements. I also replaced my helmet
by his turban.

He strove to work the gag out of his
mouth, probably to invite me to kill him, for
he was a proud man in his way, but I affected
to ignore him, thinking that the most irri¬
tating treatment to which I could subject
him.

Night was descending, and it behoved me
to be off. To steer the beast out of the cage
was a ticklish job, and before I could attempt
to do it, it was necessary to force back the
ponderous temple doors. By this time I had
been nearly forty hours without solid food,
and the strain on my weakened muscles
made me tremble all over. So little nerve
was then left to me after my exertions, that I
did not dare to ride the animal out; but,
setting it in motion, took my place in rear.
It was as well I did so, for it brushed the
bars near enough to have mangled my leg
had I been on it. The court-yard reached,
I clambered to my perch again, exulting
in my success. . . . But only for an instant.
Blackly in the gloom stood up the outer gate
with its inexorable bars.

In my nervous state I was prostrated by
this check: it seemed an end to all my
hopes. Stopping the tiger, I stared painfully
into the gathering darkness. Was I only a
rat after all ? Would the Rajah get the
better of me ? My impulse was to go back,
make an end of him, and of myself across
his body. But even then the slaying of a
man in cold blood was abhorrent to me.
Better to make one desperate effort to break
out.

Digging my hands into the long hair, I
crouched low as possible on the tiger’s back.

and turned the first four handles as far as
they would go.

The golden tiger rose in the air, came
heavily to earth, and as it rose again I shut
my eyes. There was a crash as of the crack
of doom, the whole world staggered round
me, and I thought my head was splitting—a
great jerk—I opened my eyes and found we
were bounding into unfathomable night at
the speed of an express train. I dared not
attempt to steer the animal at such a pace,
which, indeed, threatened to shake myself
and it to fragments; so, as uniformly as I
could, I reversed all the handles.

When the speed was sufficiently reduced
for me to use my eyes, we had left the ramp
far behind and were chasing across a sandy
plain. Whither I could not judge. From
behind arose a great uproar of voices, and
the discharge of the Rajah’s seven-pounder
gun, which none but he could handle, pro¬
claimed that he was again at large.

The moon came up and told me that I
was heading due south across the Rhata-
meyan plateau, which extended for some
fifteen miles in front of me till the mountains
again arose. At my present reduced pace I
ought to traverse this distance in five quarters
of an hour. Then if I could strike the
mountain road it should not be very difficult
to gallop past the guard-house, leap the
barrier, and be off up the mountain ere a
bullet could stay me.

But the Rajah had not done with me yet,
I found. One of his first acts must have
been to wire a warning to the outpost, and
as I approached the guard-house was ablaze
with light, and I saw some score of men
armed with rifles thrown forward into the
plain. I stopped the tiger, so that the
noise might not give them knowledge
of my presence before I had settled my
plans.

To gain the road was my only chance—but
how to do it ? To my horror I saw them
lead out an elephant and anchor him across
the path with the head Howards me. At the
same moment the galloping of horses came
up on the wind behind. Cursing the
momentary indecision which had added to
my difficulties, I fumbled with my handles,
but could not turn them on. At last my
nerve had broken down.

The sweat broke out on my brow, and
thinking I was about to fall from my perch I
grabbed at the seventh handle.

I felt a tremendous concussion under me;
there was a roar and a wave of fire, followed
by smoke stinking of powder. I heard the

THE GOLDEN TIGER.

595

NOT ALL RHATAMEH COULD STOP US NOW.”

yells of frightened men, and the frantic
trumpeting of the elephant.

As the vapour cleared I saw that the men
opposed to me were gone, and that the
elephant was lying prone in its chains.

The uproar of pursuit came nearer. Prais¬
ing the gods, I turned the first three handles
full on as before, and Kohilu bounded for¬
ward, once, twice, thrice—again : this time we
landed right on the elephant, trampling the
poor squealing monster into the earth. But
Kohilu, though he .toppled heavily forward,
did not fall. Up again he bounded forward

into liberty. And not all Rhatameh could
stop us now.

At dawn, after carrying me 120 miles,
Kohilu received the contents of a British
magazine rifle. It did not matter to Kohilu,
and it told me a welcome tale. I had
come on the bivouac of a regiment of
Punjaubees. A taciturn Scots major was
in command.

When he had listened to my story with a
weary air, he remarked, “ Made in Germany,
of course. Everything’s made in Germany
nowadays.”

The Newest Flying-Machine.

By Herbert C. Fyfe.

liquid fuel. The experiments of Langley,
Maxim, and others will be familiar to most
readers; it must suffice to say that no aerial
machine of this sort has yet ascended with
a passenger inside.

The third class are those who seek to
unravel the problems of the air by the
construction of gliding apparatus in which
they place themselves, and, putting off into
the air from an elevation, endeavour to reach
the ground in safety. The best-known in this
line is Mr. Pilcher. Herr Lilienthal, it will
be remembered, lost his life while attempting
a flight.

So much then for past history. The
newest “ dirigible flying - machine ” now
claims our attention. Dr. K. I. Danilewsky,
its inventor, read a paper on the apparatus
in the sub-section of Aeronautics at the
tenth meeting of naturalists and physicians,
held quite recently at Kieff. He' has been
so good as to translate some of his remarks
for us, and these are here summarized. Dr.

THE “WINGS,

LTHOUGH Dr. K. I. Dani¬
lewsky does not pretend to
have completely solved the
question of aerial navigation, he
has undoubtedly gone farther
than anyone else in the con¬
struction of a balloon which can be steered
with perfect ease in any required direction
without the aid of engine or screw.

Those who build flying-machines may be
divided into three classes. First, there are
those who believe that the coming air-ship
will be in the nature of the present-day
balloon, i.e., a substance filled with gas and
lighter than the air it displaces in the course
of its travels ; their object is to find some
means or other by which it will be possible
to guide the balloon in any required direc¬
tion, and even to force it against the wind.
Innumerable “ dirigible balloons ” have from
time to time been proposed, and many
have been constructed. But in the present
instance we shall confine ourselves to the.
apparatus in¬
vented by Dr. K.

I. Danilewsky, of
Kharkov, Russia,
who has very
kindly allowed
some of his photo¬
graphs to be re¬
produced here for
the first time, and
has supplied in¬
formation about
his experiments
and results.

Secondly, there
are those who pin
their faith in
machines heavier
than the air, pro¬
pelled by steam,
electricity, or trmq}

THE NEWEST EL YING-MA CHINE.

“This is
what I have
done in the
course of the
last eighteen
months. As to
flying against
the wind—the
machine is un¬
able to do it

From 4]

[Photograph,

READY TO START.

Danilewsky says that the results arrived at so
far can be expressed in the following way : —

1. The machine enables us, in the simplest manner
possible, to ascend easily to any given height, and to
descend safely a?i unlimited number of times , without
throwing out any ballast or letting out the gas.

2. It enables us to actively direct the machine in
calm weather in any required direction.

3. When a fair
wind comes we
are enabled to
make full use of it.

4. The machine
once being loaded
we can use it daily
and hourly for
eight or nine days.

5. What I con¬
sider as a matter
of great import¬
ance is the cheap-
ness of the
machine, its
safety in flying,
and the extreme
simplicity of its
construction, so
that any mechanic
can make one on
the same model.

yet. Such an
apparatus cannot
be produced nor
can the solution
of the question of
flight and suspen¬
sion in the air be
arrived at by the
effort of one man
and a few experi-
rnents, but by
hundreds o f
people and tens
of thousands of
experiments. The
man who attempts
to make a flying-
machine is re¬
garded (in Russia
at least) with dis¬
trust, and he finds
most people op-
[Photograph. posed to his ideas.

I feel, however,
convinced that such a machine must come, and
every year we are nearer to the desired end.

“ The-idea which led me to the construction
of my dirigible balloon is very simple, and
can be thus expressed. If a man’s strength
be not sufficient to raise him into the air, he
can raise himself if part of his weight be sub-

598

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

From a] across the town. [Photograph.

tracted. The latter condition is arrived at
by using a balloon filled with hydrogen. This
extremely plain idea I bore in mind years
ago when a student of the University. I
could, however, only prove the truth of it in
1897 and 1898, and I have now found that
by the use of a balloon filled with hydrogen
the weight of the man is eliminated from the
problem, and he can use all his efforts to
propel and steer the machine which supports
him.”

From the
p h 0 t o g r aphs
here reproduced
the reader will
be enabled to
get a very good
idea of the form
and shape of Dr.

D a n i 1 ewsky’s
balloon. The in¬
flated portion is
shaped like a
cigar, being
pointed at one
end and flat at
the other. Over
a portion of the
body is placed a
covering, and
from this stout
cords are led
down to the

metal bar which
serves to support
the aeronaut, who
is seated in a chair
firmly secured to
the bar. On each
side of him are
placed the “wings,”
and it is by the
manipulation of
these that he is
able to steer the
balloon in . calm
weather in any
direction he may
wish to go. The
nature of these
wings ” can be
best seen in the
first photograph,
where several
workmen are hold¬
ing up different pat¬
terns. By means of
ropes and pulleys
the “wings” can
be easily inclined at any angle.

Dr. Danilewsky’s first experiments were
made in October, 1897, and are thus recorded
in the inventor’s note-book : “ In the course
of 112 hours twenty-five ascents were made :
height attained was about 280ft. Some of
the ascents were made with the machine tied
to a rope, others without.”

The apparatus for supplying the hydrogen
became damaged, and the experiments were

From a]

IN FULL FLIGHT,

[Photograph-

THE NEWEST FLYING-MACHINE.

599

From uj

t Fhotovraph.

postponed till June, 1898, when the same
balloon was used, the wings this time being
16ft. 4m. long. Ten ascents were made to
70ft. The next day twenty ascents were
made to about 105ft., with wings of 14ft. It
was found that the
wings of 14ft. were
still too long, and
that the surface of
the ends of the
wings offered re¬
sistance, and con¬
sequently that the
strokes were weak.

Some days later
wings of nft. Sin.
were tried — the
working surface
was thus increased,
and it was found
that the wings de-
veloped much
greater power when
ascending, lifting
about 2olb. and
offering hardly any
resistance.

It was decided
that in case of a
too-quick descent
the wings should
be changed into

parachutes to
slacken the
descent. On the
24th June, in the
presence of a re¬
presentative of the
Russian War
Office, Colonel
G. B. Yassewitch,
fifteen ascents were
made to a height
of about 280ft.,
the balloon carry¬
ing 81 b. weight.
The descent was
slow and easy,
and the balloon
was kept immov¬
able at a certain
height by the
aeronaut, and also
turned several
times round and
round, as ordered
by Dr. Danilewsky.
Resuming experi¬
ments again on
the 27th of June, 1898, the wings were now
arranged so that they could be changed
into parachutes when the balloon was
descending. On the 4th of July ten ascents
were made to a height of from 280ft. to

From a]

DESCENDING,

[Photograph ,,

Goo

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

350ft. Dr. Danilewsky remarks on these as
follows -

“The aeronaut gave too little reserve
weight, and the machine rose briskly, after
which it began to descend very slowly. Then
he put the wings at an angle of 45deg. and
travelled for some time horizontally. There

aeronaut was told to cross to another yard,
350ft. distant. The machine was to pass in
a straight line, but when it had risen it met
with a side current of wind. After con¬
tinuing for a considerable distance the
aeronaut briskly turned the head of the
balloon against the wind, and kept the balloon

From a]

l Photograph.

was difficulty in turning the balloon round in
consequence'of the joint between the balloon
and the wings being weak, and the joint must
be made less pliable.” The experiments on
the 14th of July are thus detailed by Dr.
Danilewsky:

“ After several ascents in tile yard the

immovable for jive minutes by the manipulation
of the wings.”

Dr. Danilewsky drew the following con¬
clusions from these trials :

1. Having to struggle with different currents of the
air one must be experienced in tacking about.

3. in order to utilize the whole power of the wings

THE NEWEST FLYING-MACHINE.

601

for progressive movement, it is necessary to rise
high in the air, and then the wings can be placed at
9odeg. without any risk of descending. In the latter
case, to keep the machine from descending it is
better to open the parachute.

In subsequent trials it was found that when
the weather was calm, the aeronaut could
keep the balloon immovable, by working the
wings, for some considerable period, pro¬
vided the wind was not blowing more than
a certain number of miles an hour. On the
6th of August some experiments in the
open were tried. When at a height of 280ft.,
the machine was carried away by the current
towards the town.

“ Several times the aeronaut turned the
head of the balloon against the wind, and,
fixing the wings for progressive movement,
struggled against the current, and actually
moved slowly against it.”

The next trials were made on the 14th of
August. Dr. Danilewsky writes of these :—
“The machine turns without much difficulty
when tacking about. Having fixed the wings
at 45deg., the aeronaut moved horizontally
for about 140ft., keeping about 210ft. above
the ground. In the last ascent the aluminium
beam broke, and the. machine descended
slowly to the ground. The conclusions

I arrived at from these experiments were:
firstly, that, flying horizontally, the new
wings pushed the air with more strength
than the old ones ; secondly, that the
balloon of the new shape turned easier
than before.”

At the close of his lecture before the
Congress of Naturalists and Physicians at
Kieff, Dr. Danilewsky spoke as follows :—

“What is the conclusion we can arrive at
after all has been said ? There can be only
one conclusion : that we are near the
practical solution of the great problem of
a man being able to fly.”

How near, the reader can form his own
opinion from the photographs shown in these
pages, which depict the machine in various
stages of actual flight. The inventor, in his
modesty, rather understates his case. He
might have justly claimed that the problem is
already solved.

Dr. Danilewsky has drawn up a com¬
parative table giving an estimate of a practical
application of a balloon of the present type
and his own “flying apparatus.” As this
sums up the question very clearly, this table
is here reproduced :—

COMPARATIVE TABLE, GIVING AN ESTIMATE OF A PRACTICAL APPLICATION OF A BALLOON OF
THE PRESENT TYPE, AND A FLYING APPARATUS INVENTED BY DR. DANILEWSKY.

1. The filling with hydrogen, the riggings, and
in general. the complete equipment for
flight, requires

As Applied to a Balloon.

As Applied to a Flying
Apparatus.

from 15 men and upwards.

From 3 to 4 men.

2. Time required for all preparations at the

same conditions of filling

from 3 to 4 hours.

From y 2 an hour to i hour.

3. The transport of an apparatus filled and

fitted out for removal of troops

is not practised.

Requires 2 men.

4. The transport when folded up or taken to

pieces, requires

from 15 men and upwards.

3 men.

5. The transport of the apparatus and all its

appurtenances, including propeller, but
without hydraulic cartridge, requires

from 7 carts and upwards.

1 cart.

6. The use of the apparatus as a captive balloon,

requires

a propeller.

None.

7. The ascension of a free apparatus, as gener¬
ally practised, is accomplished

at a height previously known,
which is fixed according to the
inner arrangement of the balloon.

At a height beginning at one
metre from the earth, quite at
option of the aeronaut.

8. The free flight in calm weather

cannot be accomplished.

Can be accomplished.

9. The free flight in different currents of air and
at different heights

carries away with the current it
happens to encounter.

Is according to the will of the
aeronaut, who looks out for a
propitious wind.

10. The moment of descent

is under the control of the
aeronaut until his store of ballast
is exhausted.

Is always under the control of the
aeronaut, quite independent of
any ballast.

11. The descent to earth

is most frequently a risk.

Is'most frequently no risk.

12. The repeated ascending and descending

is impossible.

Is possible innumerable times.

13. One filling with hydrogen serves

for one flight; at the utmost for
two.

For innumerable times within 8 to

9 days, notwithstanding insig¬
nificant accidents caused by the
escape of hydrogen by diffusion.

Vol. xvii.—76.

By E. Nesbit.

rather tiresome and naughty per¬
haps, but still natural. He had
never before thought it curious.
She stood holding her handkerchief
to her eye, and said :—

“ I don’t believe it’s out.” People
always say this when they have had
something in their eyes.

“ Oh, yes — it’s out” said the
doctor—“ here it is on the brush.
This is very interesting.”

Effie had never heard her father
say that about anything that she
had any share in. She said
“ What?”

The doctor carried the brush very
carefully across the room, and held the point
of it under his microscope—then he twisted
the brass screws of the microscope, and
looked through the top with one eye.

“ Dear me,” he said. “ Dear, dear me !
Four well-developed limbs; a long caudal
appendage ; five toes, unequal in lengths,
almost like one of the Lacertidae, yet there
are traces of wings.” The creature under
his eye wriggled a little in the castor-oil, and
he went on : “ Yes ; a bat-like wing. A new
specimen, undoubtedly. Effie, run round to
the professor and ask him to be kind enough
to step in for a few minutes.”

“You might give me sixpence, daddy,”
said Effie, “ because I did bring you the new
specimen. I took great care of it inside my
eye; and my eye does hurt.”

T all began with Effie’s getting
something in her eye. It
hurt very much indeed, and it
felt something like a red-hot
spark—only it seemed to have
legs as well, and wings like a
fly. Effie rubbed and cried—not real crying,
but the kind your eye does all by itself with¬
out your being miserable inside your mind—
and then she went to her father to have the
thing in her eye taken out. Effie’s father was
a doctor, so of course he knew how to take
things out of eyes—he did it very cleverly
with a soft paint-brush dipped in castor-oil.
When he had got the thing out, he said :—

“ This is very curious.” Effie had often
got things in her eye before, and her father
had always seemed to think it was natural—

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

603

The doctor was so pleased with the new
specimen that he gave Effie a shilling, and
presently the professor stepped round. He
stayed to lunch, and he and the doctor
quarrelled very happily all the afternoon
about the name and the family of the thing
that had come out of Effie’s eye.

But at tea-time another thing happened.
Effie’s brother Harry fished something out o.f
his tea, which he thought at first was an ear¬
wig. He was just getting ready to drop it
on the floor, and end its life in the usual way,
when it shook itself in the spoon—spread
two wet wings, and flopped on to the table¬
cloth. There it sat stroking itself with its
feet and stretching its wings, and Harry said :

“ Why, it’s a tiny newt ! ”

The professor leaned forward before the
doctor could say a word. “I’ll give you
half a crown for it, Harry, my lad,” he said,
speaking very fast; and then he picked it
up carefully on his handkerchief.

“ It is a new specimen,” he said, “ and finer
than yours, doctor.”

It was a tiny lizard, about half an inch long
—with scales and wings.

So now the doctor and the professor each
had a specimen, and they were both very
pleased. But before long these specimens
began to seem less valuable. For the next
morning, when the knife-boy was cleaning
the doctor’s boots, he suddenly dropped the
brushes and the boot and the blacking, and
screamed out that he was burnt.

And from inside the boot came crawling a
lizard as big as a kitten, with large, shiny
wings.

“ Why,” said Effie, “ I know what it is.
It is a dragon like St. George killed.”

And Effie was right. That afternoon
Towser was bitten in the garden by a dragon
about the size of a rabbit, which he had tried
to chase, and next morning all the papers
were full of the wonderful “ winged lizards ”
that were appearing all over the country.
The papers would not call them dragons,
because, of course, no one believes in dragons
nowadays—and at any rate the papers were
not going to be so silly as to believe in fairy
stories. At first there were only a few, but
in a week or two the country was simply
running alive with dragons of all sizes, and
in the air you could sometimes see them as
thick as a swarm of bees. They all looked
alike except as to size. They were green
with scales, and they had four legs and a
long tail and great wings like bats’ wings,
only the wings were a pale, half-transparent
yellow, like the gear-cases on bicycles.

And they breathed fire and smoke, as all
proper dragons must, but still the newspapers
went on pretending they were lizards, until the
editor of the Standard was picked up and
carried away by a very large one, and then
the other newspaper people had not anyone
left to tell them what they ought not to believe.
So that when the largest elephant in the Zoo
was carried off by a dragon, the papers gave
up pretending—and put: “ Alarming Plague
of Dragons ” at the top of the paper.

And you have no idea how alarming it
was, and at the same time how aggravating.
The large-sized dragons were terrible
certainly, but when once you had found out
that the dragons always went to bed early
because they were afraid of the chill night
air, you had only to stay indoors all day, and
you were pretty safe from the big ones. But
the smaller sizes were a perfect nuisance.
The ones as big as earwigs got in the soap,
and they got in the butter. The ones as big
as dogs got in the bath, and the fire and
smoke inside them made them steam like any¬
thing when the cold water tap was turned on,
so that careless people were often scalded
quite severely. The ones that were as large
as pigeons would get into work-baskets or
corner drawers, and bite you when you were
in a hurry to get a needle or a handkerchief.
The ones as big as sheep were easier to avoid,
because you could see them coming; but when
they flew in at the windows and curled up
under your eider-down, and you did not find
them till you went to bed, it was always a
shock. The ones this size did not eat people,
only lettuces, but they always scorched the
sheets and pillow-cases dreadfully.

Of course, the County Council and the police
did everything that could be done : it was no
use offering the hand of the Princess to any¬
one who killed a dragon. This way was all
very well in olden times—when there was
only' .one dragon and one Princess; but now
there were far more dragons than Princesses
—although the Royal Family was a large one.
And besides, it would have been mere waste
of Princesses to offer rewards for killing
dragons, because everybody killed as many
dragons as they could quite out of their own
heads and without rewards at all, just to get
the nasty things out of the way. The County
Council undertook to cremate all dragons
delivered at their offices between the hours of
ten and two, and whole waggon-loads and cart¬
loads and truck-loads of dead dragons could
be seen any day of the week standing in a
long line in the street where the County
Council lived. Boys brought barrow-loads

604

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

" THE LARGEST ELEPHANT IN THE ZOO WAS CARRIED OFF.

of dead dragons, and children on their way
home from morning school would call in to
leave the handful or two of little dragons they
had brought in their satchels, or carried in
their knotted pocket-handkerchiefs. And yet
there seemed to be as many dragons as ever.

Then the police stuck up great wood and
canvas towers covered with patent glue.
When the dragons flew against these towers,
they stuck fast, as flies and wasps do
on the sticky papers in the kitchen ; and
when the towers were covered all over
with dragons, the police-inspector used to
set light to the towers, and burnt them and
dragons and all.

And yet there seemed to be more dragons
than ever. The shops were full of patent
dragon poison and anti-dragon soap, and
dragon-proof curtains for the windows ; and,

indeed, everything that could
be done was done.

And yet there seemed to be
more dragons than ever.

It was not very easy to
know what would poison a
dragon, because you see they
ate such different things. The
largest kind ate elephants as
long as there were any, and
then went on with horses and
cows. Another size ate nothing
but lilies of the valley, and
a third size ate only Prime
Ministers if they were to be
had, and, if not, would feed
freely on boys in buttons.
Another size lived on bricks,
and three of them ate two-
thirds of the South Lambeth
Infirmary in one afternoon.

But the siz*e Effie was
most afraid of was about as
big as your dining - room,
and that size ate little girls
and boys.

At first Effie and her brother
were quite pleased with the
change in their lives. It was
so amusing to sit up all night
instead of going to sleep, and
to play in the garden lighted
by electric lamps. And it
sounded so funny to hear
mother say, when they were
going to bed :—

• “ Good-night, my darlings,
sleep sound all day, and don’t
get up too soon. You must not
get up before it’s quite dark.
You wouldn’t like the nasty dragons to
catch you.”

But after a time they got very tired of it
all: they wanted to see the flowers and trees
growing in the fields, and to see the pretty
sunshine out of doors, and not just through
glass windows and patent dragon-proof
curtains. And they wanted to play on the
grass, which they were not allowed to do in
the electric lamp-lighted garden because of
the night-dew.

And they wanted so much to get out, just
for once, in the beautiful, bright, dangerous
daylight, that they began to try and think of
some reason why they ought to go out.
Only they did not like to disobey their
mother.

But one morning their mother was busy pre¬
paring some new dragon poison to lay down in

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

605

the cellars, and their father was bandaging
the hand of the boot-boy which had been
scratched by one of the dragons who liked
to eat Prime Ministers when they were to be
had, so nobody remembered to say to the
children :—

“ Don’t get up till it is quite dark ! ”

“ Go now,” said Harry; “it would not be
disobedient to go. And I know exactly
what we ought to do, but I don’t know how
we ought to do it.”

“ What ought we to do ? ” said Effie.

“We ought to wake St. George, of course,”
said Harry. “He was the only person in
his town who knew how to manage dragons ;
the people in the fairy tales don’t count.
But St. George is a real person, and he is
only asleep, and he is waiting to be waked
up. Only nobody believes in St. George
now. I heard father say so.”

“ We do,” said Effie.

“ Of course we do. And don’t you see,
El, that’s the very reason why we could wake
him ? You can’t wake people if you don’t
believe in them, can you ? ”

Effie said no, but where could they find
St. George?

“We must go and look,” said Harry,
boldly. “ You shall wear a dragon-proof
frock, made of stuff like the curtains. And
I will smear myself all over with the best
dragon poison, and-”

Effie clasped her hands and skipped with
joy, and cried :—

“ Oh, Harry ! I know where we c find
St. George! In St. George’s Church, of
course.”

“ Um,” said Harry, wishing he had thought
of it for himself, “you have a little sense
sometimes, for a girl.”

So next afternoon quite early, long before
the beams of sunset announced the coming
night, when everybody would be up and
working, the two children got out of bed.
Effie wrapped herself in a shawl of dragon-
proof muslin—there was no time to make
the frock—and Harry made a horrid mess of
himself with the patent dragon poison. It
was warranted harmless to infants and
invalids, so he felt quite safe.

Then they took hands and set out to walk
to St. George’s Church. As you know, there
are many St. George’s churches, but, for¬
tunately, they took the turning that leads
to the right one, and went along in the
bright sunlight, feeling very brave and
adventurous.

There was no one about in the streets
except dragons, and the place was simply

swarming with them. Fortunately none of
the dragons were just the right size for eating
little boys and girls, or perhaps this story
might have had to end here. There were
dragons on the pavement, and dragons on the
road-way, dragons basking on the front-door
steps of public buildings, and dragons preen¬
ing their wings on the roofs in the hot after¬
noon sun. The town was quite green with
them. Even when the children had got out
of the town and were walking in the lanes,
they noticed that the fields on each side
were greener than usual with the scaly legs
and tails; and some of the smaller sizes had
made themselves asbestos nests in the
flowering hawthorn hedges.

Effie held her brother’s hand very tight,
and once when a fat dragon flopped against
her ear she screamed out, and a whole flight
of green dragons rose from the field at the
sound, and sprawled away across the sky.
The children could hear the rattle of their
wings as they flew.

“ Oh, I want to go home,” said Effie.

“ Don’t be silly,” said Harry. “ Surely
you haven’t forgotten about the Seven
Champions and all the Princes. People
who are going to be their country’s de¬
liverers never scream and say they want
to go home.”

“ And are we,” asked Effie—“ deliverers,

I mean ? ”

“ You’ll see,” said her brother, and on
they went.

When they came to St. George’s Church
they found the door open, and they walked
right in—but St. George was not there, so
they walked round the churchyard outside,
and presently they found the great stone
tomb of St. George, with the figure of him
carved in marble outside, in his armour and
helmet, and with his hands folded on his
breast.

“ How ever can we wake him ? ” they
said.

Then Harry spoke to St. George—but he
would not answer ; and he called, but
St. George did not seem to hear; and then
he actually tried to waken the great dragon-
slayer by shaking his marble shoulders. But
St. George took no notice.

Then Effie began to cry, and she put her
arms round St. George’s neck as well as she
could for the marble, which was very much
in the way at the back, and she kissed the
marble face and she said :—

“ Oh, dear, good, kind St. George, please
wake up and help us.”

And at that St. George opened his eyes

6 o6

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE.

sleepily, and stretched himself and said:
“ What’s the matter, little girl ? ”

So the children told him all about it; he
turned over in his marble and leaned on one
elbow to listen. But when he heard that

of settling these dragons. By the way,
what sort of weather have you been having
lately?”

This seemed so careless and unkind that
Harry would not answer, but Effie said,

PLEASE WAKE UP AND HELP US.”

there were so many dragons he shook his
head.

“ It’s no good,” he said, “ they would be
one too many for] poor old George. You
should have waked me before. I was always
for a fair fight—one man one dragon, was
my motto.”

Just then a flight of dragons passed over¬
head, and St. George half drew his sword.

But he shook his head again, and pushed
the sword back as the flight of dragons grew
small in the distance.

“ I can’t do anything,” he said; “ things
have changed since my time. St. Andrew
told me about it. They woke him up over
the engineers’ strike, and he came to talk
to me. He says everything is done by
machinery now ; there must be some way

patiently, “It has been very fine. Father
says it is the hottest weather there has ever
been in this country.”

“ Ah, I guessed as much,” said the Cham¬
pion, thoughtfully. “ Well, the only thing
would be ... . dragons can’t stand wet and
cold, that’s the only thing. If you could
find the taps.”

St. George was beginning to settle down
again on his stone slab.

“ Good-night, very sorry I can’t help
you,” he said, yawning behind his marble
hand.

“ Oh, but you can,” cried Effie. “ Tell
us—what taps ? ”

“ Oh, like in the bathroom,” said St.
George, still more sleepily ; “ and there’s a
looking-glass, too ; shows you all the world

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

607

and what’s going on. St. Denis told me
about it ; said it was a very pretty thing.
I’m sorry I can’t—good-night.”

And he fell back into his marble and was
fast asleep again in a moment.

“We shall never find the taps,” said Harry.
“ I say, wouldn’t it be awful if St. George
woke up when there was a dragon near, the
size that eats champions ? ”

Effie pulled off her dragon-proof veil.
“ We didn’t meet any the size of the dining¬
room as we came
along,” she said; “I
daresay we shall be
quite safe.”

So she covered St.

George with the veil,
and Harry rubbed off
as much as he could
of the dragon poison
on to St George’s
armour, so as to
make everything
quite safe for him.

“ We might hide
in the church till it
is dark,” he said,

“ and then-”

But at that moment
a dark shadow fell on
them, and they saw
that it was a dragon
exactly the size of the
dining-room at home.

So then they knew
that all was lost. The
dragon swooped down
and caught the two
children in his claws ;
he caught Effie by
her green silk sash,
and Harry by the
little point at the
back of his Eton
jacket — and then,
spreading his great
yellow wings, he rose
into the air, rattling
like a third-class
carriage when the
brake is hard on.

“ Oh, Harry,” said
Effie, “I wonder
when he will eat us ! ”

The dragon was flying across woods and
fields with great flaps of his wings that
carried him a quarter of a mile at each flap.

Harry and Effie could see the country
below, hedges and rivers and churches and

farmhouses flowing away from under them,
much faster than you see them running away
from the sides of the fastest express train.

And still the dragon flew on. The children
saw other dragons in the air as they went,
but the dragon who was as big as the dining¬
room never stopped to speak to any of them,
but just flew on quite steadily.

“ He knows where he wants to go,” said
Harry. “ Oh, if he would only drop us
before he gets there ! ”

But the dragon held on tight, and he flew
and flew and flew until at last, when the
children were quite giddy, he settled down,
with a rattling of all his scales, on the top of
a mountain. And he lay there on his great

5 HE ROSE INTO THE AIR, RATTLING LIKE A THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE.

6o8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

green scaly side, panting, and very much out
of breath, because he had come such a long
way. But his claws were fast in Efifie’s sash
and the little point at the back of Harry’s
Eton jacket.

Then Effie took out the knife Harry had
given her on her birthday. It only cost six¬
pence to begin with, and she had had it a
month, and it never could sharpen anything
but slate-pencils, but somehow she managed
to make that knife cut her sash in front, and
crept out of it, leaving the dragon with only
a green silk bow in one of his claws. That
knife would never have
cut Harry’s jacket - tail
off, though, and when
Effie had tried for some
time she saw that this
was so, and gave it up.

But with her help Harry
managed to wriggle
quietly out of his sleeves,
so that the dragon had
only an Eton jacket in
his other claw. Then
the children crept on tip¬
toe to a crack in the
rocks and got in. It was
much too narrow for the
dragon to get in also,
so they stayed in there
and waited to make faces
at the dragon when he
felt rested enough to
sit up and begin to
think about eating them.

He was very angry,
indeed, when they made
faces at him, and blew
out fire and smoke at
them, but they ran
farther into the cave so
that he could not reach
them, and when he was

So they went boldly into the tap-room,
and shut the door behind them.

And now they were in a sort of room cut'
out of the solid rock, and all along one side
of the room were taps, and all the taps were
labelled with china labels like you see to
baths. And as they could both read words
of two syllables or even three sometimes, they
understood at once that they had got to the
place where the weather is turned on from.
There were six big taps labelled “ Sun¬
shine,” “ Wind,” “ Rain,” “ Snow,” “ Hail,”
“ Ice,” and a lot of little ones, labelled “ Fair

* ONE SIDE OF THE ROOM WAS JUST A DIG LOOKING-GLASS.”

tired of blowing he went away.

But they were afraid to come out of the
cave, so they went farther in, and presently
the cave opened out and grew bigger, and
the floor was soft sand, and when they had
come to the very end of the cave there was
a door, and on it was written: “ U?iiversal
Tap - room . Private. No o?ie allowed
inside I

So they opened the door at once just to
peep in, and then they remembered what St.
George had said.

“We can’t be worse off than we are,” said
Harry, “ with a dragon waiting for us out¬
side. Let’s go in.”

to moderate,” “ Showery,” “ South breeze,”
“Nice growing weather for the crops,”
“ Skating,” “ Good open weather,” “ South
wind,” “East wind,” and so on. And the
big tap labelled “ Sunshine ” was turned full
on. They could not see any sunshine—the
cave was lighted by a skylight of blue glass—
so they supposed the sunlight was pouring
out by some other way, as it does with the
tap that washes out the underneath parts of
patent sinks in kitchens.

Then they saw that one side of the room
was just a big looking-glass, and when you
looked in it you could see everything that
was going on in the world—and all at once,

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

609

too, which is not like most looking-glasses.
They saw the carts delivering the dead
dragons at the County Council offices, and
they saw St. Ceorge asleep under the dragon-
proof veil. And they saw their mother at
home crying because her children had gone
out in the dreadful, dangerous daylight, and
she was afraid a dragon had eaten them.
And they saw the whole of England, like a
great puzzle-map—green in the field parts
and brown in the towns, and black in the
places where they make coal, and crockery,
and cutlery, and chemicals. And all over it,
on the black parts, and on the brown, and
on the green, there was a network of green
dragons. And they could see that it was
still broad daylight, and no dragons had
gone to bed yet.

So Effie said, “ Dragons do not like cold.”
And she tried to turn off the sunshine, but
the tap was out of order, and that was why
there had been so much hot weather, and
why the dragons had been able to. be
hatched. So they left the sunshine-tap
alone, and they turned on the snow and left
the tap full on while they went to look in the
glass. There they saw the dragons running
all sorts of ways like ants if you are cruel
enough to pour water into an ant-heap,
which, of course, you never are. And the
snow fell more and more.

Then Effie turned the rain-tap quite full
on, and presently the dragons began to
wriggle less, and by-and-by some of them lay
quite still, so the children knew the water
had put out the fires inside them, and they
were dead. So then they turned on the hail
—only half on, for fear of breaking people’s
windows- and after a while there were no
more dragons to be seen moving.

Then the children knew that they were
indeed the deliverers of their country.

“They will put up a monument to us,”
said Harry; “as high as Nelson’s! All the
dragons are dead.”

“ I hope the one that was waiting outside
for us is dead ! ” said Effie ; “ and about the
monument, Harry, I’m not so sure. What
can they do with such a lot of dead dragons ?
It would take years and years to bury them,
and they could never be burnt now they are
so soaking wet. I wish the rain would wash
them off into the sea.”

But this did not happen, and the children
began to feel that they had not been so
frightfully clever after all.

“ I wonder what this old thing’s for,” said
Harry. He had found a rusty old tap,
which seemed as though it had not been

Vol. xvii.—77

used for ages. Its china label was quite
coated over with dirt *and cobwebs. When
Effie had cleaned it with a bit of her
skirt — for curiously enough both the
children had come out without pocket-
handkerchiefs — she found that the label
said “ WasteS

“ Let’s turn it on,” she said ; “ it might
carry off the dragons.”

The tap was very stiff from not having
been used for such a long time, but together
they managed to turn it on, and then ran to
the mirror to see what happened.

Already a great, round, black hole had
opened in the very middle of the map of
England, and the sides of the map were tilt¬
ing themselves up, so that the rain ran down
towards the hole.

“ Oh, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah ! ” cried Effie,
and she hurried back to the taps and turned
on everything that seemed wet. “Showery,”
“ Good open weather,” “ Nice growing
weather for the crops,” and even “South”
and “ South-West,” because she had heard
her father say that those winds brought
rain.

And now the floods of rain were pouring
down on the country, and great sheets of
water flowed towards the centre of the map,
and cataracts of water poured into the great
round hole in the middle of the map, and
the dragons were being washed away and
disappearing down the waste-pipe in great
green masses and scattered green shoals
single dragons and dragons by the dozen ;
of all sizes, from the ones that carry off
elephants down to the ones that get in your
tea.

And presently there was not a dragon left.
So then they turned off the tap named
“ Waste,” and they half-turned off the one
labelled “Sunshine” -it was broken, so that
they could not turn it off altogether and they
turned on “Fairto moderate”and “Showery”
and both taps stuck, so that they could not
be turned off, which accounts for our climate.

How did they get home again ? By the
Snowdon railway—of course.

And was the nation grateful ? Well— the
nation was very wet. And by the time the
nation had got dry again it was interested
in the new invention for toasting muffins
by electricity, and all the dragons were
almost forgotten. Dragons do not seem
so important when they are dead and
gone, and, you know, there never was a
reward offered.

And what did father and mother say when
Effie and Harry got home ?

My dear, that is the sort of silly question
you children always will ask. However, just
for this once I don’t mind telling you.

Mother said : “ Oh, my darlings, my
darlings, you’re safe—you’re safe ! You
naughty children — how could you be so
disobedient ? Go to bed at once ! ”

And their father the doctor said :—

“ I wish I had known what you were going

to do ! I should have liked to preserve a
specimen. I threw away the one I got out
of Effie’s eye. I intended to get a more
perfect specimen. I did not anticipate this
immediate extinction of the species.”

The professor said nothing, but he rubbed
his hands. He had kept his specimen—the
one the size of an earwig that he gave
Harry half a crown for—and he has it to
this day.

You must get him to show it to you !

Curiosities * ,

[ We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section , and to pay for such as are accepted. ]

A MELTED TUMBLER.

It is a somewhat difficult matter to trace
any similarity to an ordinary glass tumbler in
the odd-shaped article seen in our next photo¬
graph, but such was its original mission. It
was found standing on a tank outside the
premises of Messrs. Goodchild and Co., of
Vryburg, after a fire had destroyed their
premises, having been reduced to this
shape by the heat. The photograph was
sent in by Mr. W. Klisser, photographer,
of Vryburg.

A FACIAL STUDY.

The photographer’s
art is responsible for
the curious study in
faces reproduced here¬
with. You are not
looking at the counter¬
feit presentments of
three brothers, but of
one and the same man,
who, in the first in¬
stance, is with a mous¬
tache, in the second
with a full beard, and
in the third he is clean
shaven. By covering
the lower part of the
face you will see the
resemblance at once.

The deception has been
exceptionally well carried out, and it is
curious to note the air of vigour that is
imparted to the central face by the full
beard. The gentleman in question is Mr.
Robert Pfeiffer, of Cincinnati, U.S.A.
Of course, each portrait was taken at a
different sitting, but all three were taken
on the same day. The photo, was taken
by Krieg, Cincinnati.

CHRISTIANITY EMBRACING BUDDHISM.

This photograph is of very peculiar interest. It represents a
scene in the churchyard of Badulla, Ceylon, that is now familiarly
referred to as “Christianity Embracing Buddhism,” and the
reason is because of the association of the tombstone with the
tree. The latter is the Bo-tree, the sacred tree of Buddhism,
which in growing has carried the tombstone up bodily off the
ground in the singular manner seen in the photograph. The
tombstone was erected about 1840, but it has been embedded in the
tree like this now for many years. The photograph was forwarded
by Mr. H. B. Christie, Ceylon Civil Service, Badulla, Ceylon.

* Copyright, 1899, by George Newnes, Limited.

6 l2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

HELPING ATLAS.

Mr. Frank H. Williams, of 14, Distaff
Lane, Cannon Street, E.C., in sending the
accompanying snap-shot, writes : “ Inclosed
is a photograph of myself turning head-
over-heels for the amusement of a few
friends, which photo. I think a fitting com¬
panion to ‘ A Candidate for Apoplexy 5 in
a recent number. The picture was taken
by my brother on a hot afternoon last
summer.” Mr. Williams seems to have
taken root in his odd posture, but a still
funnier effect is obtained if the picture is
held upside down, for then he appears to
be trying to help Atlas in holding the world
up, only that his footing is somewhat un¬
certain. —

A REMARKABLE ADDRESS.

Our next photograph is a facsimile of an

address on a letter that found its way from Spain to
the G.P.O., St. Martin’s-le-Grand. Remarkable as
it may seem, this specimen of handwriting was de¬
ciphered by “the blind man of St. Martin’s,” and the
letter safely reached its destination. It is addressed
to the “Spanish Ambassador (or Embassy), London.”
We wonder how many of our readers would enjoy
having to decipher scrawl like this. Even the Post
Office expert was undecided about one word, and
admits to either Ambassador or Embassy. This
specimen of illegibility in addresses was taken from
the scrap-book of Post Office curiosities, collected
by one who was employed at the G.P.O. for upwards
of fifty years, the photograph itself being sent in by
Mr. C. W. Gotl, 7, Leybourne Terrace, Stockton-on-
Tees.

W:'

From a Photo, by C. //. Benham, Widnes.

A LOYAL MONUMENT.

This is not a photograph
of some granite monolith
or an obelisk of marble
erected by skilled hands
and requiring days of toil.
Like the mushroom, it
sprang up in a single night,
and is made entirely of
soap-boxes, with a pole
through the centre as a sup¬
port. This “ monument ”
was built to commemorate
the Queen’s Jubilee by the
firm of W. Gossage and
Sons, of Widnes, and
adorned the square of that
loyal borough during
Jubilee week. Many hun¬
dreds of boxes were used
in its construction. The
height (60ft.) was intended
to represent the length of
the reign of Her Majesty.
Mr. Herbert W. Pates,
of Widnes, is the sender
of this interesting photo¬
graph.

CURIOSITIES.

613

A HOUSE OF PORCUPINE QUILLS.

The pretty little model of a house shown
in our next photograph is made of porcupine
quills, and is the handiwork of a retired
gentleman, Mr. Joubert, of Graaf Reinet,
Cape Colony, who devoted the leisure
hours of a whole year to its construction.
Between 30,000 and 40,000 brass pins were
used in fixing the quills together, and the
house has a straw roof. The dimensions of
the little domicile are 2ft. 6in. by 3ft. 6in.,
and it stands in a huge glass case.
It was exhibited at the Kimberley Exhibi¬
tion of 1892, and also at Pretoria. The
photograph was sent to us by Graham
Botha, the fifteen - year - old son of a
Dutch Reformer, living at St. Stephen’s
Parsonage, Cape Town.

TRANSPORTATION OF DUCKS.

A novel method of transporting ducks, in
operation in Szabadka, in Hungary, is shown
in the accompanying photograph. In place of
the usual crate a sack is obtained, in which a
number of holes are cut; through these the heads
of the unfortunate birds are thrust. In the
photograph we are able to reproduce, thanks to
the courtesy of Mr. Ernest C. Jeffery, of 20,
North Park Road, Manningham, it will be
seen that the birds have settled down in their
confined quarters, but when they are first taken
out of the train the noise they make may be better
imagined than described, and the helples struggles
of the imprisoned birds are really most comical.

A BIG FAMILY.

The accompanying photograph represents Mr.
T. H. Norman, of the Post Office Department, at
Washington, D.C., and his family, consisting of his
wife and fifteen children, all girls. The parents have
had seventeen children altogether, but two died, one
boy and one girl. There are' no twins in the family.
The eldest was
twenty - five years
and the youngest
nineteen months
old at the time the
photograph was
taken. Norman is
a coloured man,
forty-five years of
age, and his wife
is about the same
age. His salary is
only fifty-five dol¬
lars a month, and
yet he has managed
to educate all
his children old
enough to receive
an education. His
family reside at
Montgomery,

Fayette Co., West
Virginia, and the
picture — which
was sent in by
Mr. A. B. Hurt,

Washington —
shows a portion
of their home.

614

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

A CURIOUS ICICLE.

Our next photograph speaks for itseh. It
shows a curious form of icicle that grew up¬
wards as the result of one night’s severe frost
in February last. It was photographed by
Mr. W. E. Daw, of Church Street, King’s
Lynn, on the morning of February 28th,
1S99. The tap was situated in a stable-yard,
surrounded by high walls and houses, in the
midst of a town. It is interesting to notice
the firm foot the icicle stands upon, and,

A LONG-DISTANCE PHOTO.

Mr. Clifford L. Higgins, of Duluth,
Minn., U.S.A., in sending this photo¬
graph, writes : “ It is a view taken
with a 4 by 5 camera, ordinary lens,
of a tug and barcpie at a distance of one
and a half miles from the camera. The
hill on which the latter was placed
was about 400ft. above the level of
the water. The scene was taken at
this great distance by placing a 3ft.
telescope directly on to the front end
of the lens, the snap-shot being made
at the moment the boats got into the
field of view.” The hazy effects sur¬
rounding the picture are caused by
the telescope cylinder ; but the result
is certainly very curious, and the ex¬
periment is one which everyone can
easily try for himself.

GENERAL GORDON AS A BOY.

Very particular interest is attached to our next photograph,
which we are privileged to reproduce in these pages, thanks to
the courtesy of Mrs. Jennette Fothergill, of Park House, Fin-
borough, Stowmarket. The boy on the right is General Gordon
when eleven years of age, and the gentleman seated in the chair
is his uncle, General Samuel E. Gordon, aged twenty. The
photograph fron\ which our reproduction is made was copied
from a daguerreotype taken in July,

1844. Young Gordon’s picture gives
one the impression that he was a true
type of the English schoolboy of the
period, as h^was the true type of an
English gentleman and a soldier in
after years.

gradually creeping upwards, has nearly
reached the dripping tap. By ten o’clock,
Mr. Daw says, the temperature had risen
so much that the icicle quickly melted.

CURIOSITIES.

615

A ROLLING LEAP.

It is claimed that by jumping in the
singular manner shown in the three snap¬
shots here reproduced, a much greater height

can be cleared than in
the ordinary way, but it
is not a method that we
would advise even mode¬
rately good athletes to
attempt without a lot of
practice beforehand
at small heights. The
snap - shots show the
jumper in three different
positions.: first, rising ;
second, clearing the
bar ; and third, breaking
the fall with the arms.
He cleared the height of
5ft. 4in. on this occasion
—not a record leap by
any means, but just a
fair average specimen.
The critical moment
comes at the point of
alighting, for the
jumper has to take
care to fall, not on his
head, but on the back
of the neck.

A STREET AT NIGHT.

The photograph of a street scene here reproduced was taken
at midnight by Mr. Fred. S. Guttersen, from a window in the
San Francisco Press Club. It was given an exposure of an
hour. The portion of Ellis Street shown in the picture was
crowded with pedestrians, cabs, and street cars, yet none of
them appear in the photograph. The white streak in the centre
of the street was caused by the trolly-car head-lights, and the
protuberances in the thread show where the cars stopped. On
the extreme right a cupola of the Baldwin Hotel is visible,
and a little to the left of the centre may be seen the top of the
San Francisco Morning Call building, a twenty-one story sky¬
scraper. The clock-tower of the Morning Chronicle structure
shows up on the left. The night was unusually dark, and a

large number of arc lamps
were burning in the street.

A NATURAL LIKENESS.

We have an infinite
variety of photographs sent
in to us of curious natural
formations in stones, but
very few reach the excellence
of the one reproduced here¬
with. This is a piece of
flint picked up on the beach
at Felixstowe, anclthe resem¬
blance it bears -to a dog’s
head is most remarkable.
We have had an oppor¬
tunity of inspecting it for
ourselves at these offices.
It has not been touched up
in the least degree, even
the white of the eye being
quite a natural chalk forma¬
tion. The photograph was
sent in by Miss Ina Smith,
24, Pandora Road, West
Hampstead.

6 i6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

A TOWER FROM TWO POINTS OF VIEW.

Both these photographs are views of the
water-tower at Reading, Mass. . U.S. A., only,
of course,
taken from two

totally differ¬
ent points. In
the one we see
the tower as it
looks at a dis¬
tance ; in the
other we are
looking direct¬
ly up itsside. In
the latter case
the camera was
held close to
the base of the
tower, a n d
pointing verti¬
cally to the
top. The tower
is iooft. high
to the railing,
and about
diameter. The sender of
the photos, is Mr. Arthur
V. I’illsbury. Reading,
Mass., U.S.A.

THE EFFECT OF A DIVE.

This is a snap-shot of a dive, but the diver has dis¬
appeared, and the camera just caught the hollow he
made in the water with the subsequent splashing
caused by the waters meeting in the middle of the
depression. Sender of photo., Mr. Harrison
R. Steeves, c.o. Messrs. Church, E. Gates
and Co., 138th Street and 4th Avenue, New
Ybrk, U.S.A. -

HARVEST OF THE SEA FESTIVAL.

Most chapels and churches include a lestival
of thanksgiving for the harvest of the land
amongst the prescribed celebrations of the
year, but at the Old Wesley Chapel, Bourne
Street, Hastings, they hold a harvest of the
sea festival. The accompanying photograph
— which has been forwarded by Mr. Frank
W. Barfoot, of Rock House, Nelson Road,
Hastings—is an interior view of the chapel,
showing the decorations for the festival that
was held last year. All round the gallery are
hung real fishing nets, whilst suspended under¬
neath at intervals are
bowls of live gold-fish.
The miscellaneous
collection of articles
adorning the pulpit
and its immediate sur¬
roundings comprise
models of ships, sea
pictures, stuffed sea
birds,‘-shells,,etc.,- the
whole effect being ex¬
cellent. Most of the
decorations are kindly
lent by the fisherfolk
who attend the chapel,
and' the greatest in¬
terest is evinced in
the day’s proceedings.
Another curious fea¬
ture of this old chapel
is that many years ago
it was a theatre, and
there still remain two
galleries, one above
the other ; the top one,
however, not being
often used.

“I SAW THE BODY OF BOB LYING UPON IIIS BACK.”
(See page 627.)

The Strand Magazine.

Vol. xvii. ■ JUNE, 1899 No. 102.

An Extraordinary Story.

By Neil Wynn Williams.

Author of “ The Bayonet that Came Home” etc.

HE soldiers handed me over Three nights afterwards I got drunk, and
to him. must have blabbed it out to Bob.

I looked at the collar of his The next morning he came to me.

blue tunic. “41 B,” I read, in “So you have put the swag with Jackson’s,

nickel-plated letters. Then I have you, Tom ? ” he said,
found myself

meeting his eye.

He drew himself up.

/knew what*was coming.

“It’s my duty to warn you
that anything you may now

say-” he had begun, very

seriously, when I stopped
him short.

“ Here ! ” I said, holding
out my wrists, “ I know all
about that. Slip ’em on.
And save your breath.”

He grinned, recognising
me for an old hand.

“Yes!” I said, “it ’ull
have to come out. You may
as well hear it now as later
in court.”

“ But-” he began to

object.

I shook my head.

“It was, and it wasn’t, my
fault,” I said. “ But listen ! ”
And I told him this, which
is the truth.

His name is Bob Fry. He
lived at 3, Fiddlers’ Court,

Whitechapel. I did not kill
him. And the other one ! I know nothing
about him.. He had nothing to do with our
job. I never set eyes on him before last night.

In November, 1884, I broke into 405,
Park Lane—Park Lane in London, I mean.

Vol. xvii.—78.

It was my first job. I was taken with a
trembling fit.

“H — how d’you know?” I stammered;
and I’d have run for it, if I had had the
strength.

620

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

He found it difficult to make me under¬
stand. But presently my head was clearer.

“ You want—you want-”

“Yes,” he said, cheerfully, “you’ll give me
half.”

A shiver seemed to go right through me.
Giving a laugh, I tried to deceive myself.

“ You always will have your joke, Bob,” I
said.

The expression of his face changed in a
second to sternness.

“ Drop it! ” he said.

“ But-” I began.

“That is enough!” he interrupted. “I
am in the know, Tom. And if you don’t
share, I’ll split.”

There ! that was how he had me first.
And, come through it safe, “ Never again,” I
said to myself. Lor’ ! but bricklaying along
of Bob for years, I might have known him
better. His share of the plunder gave him
an appetite. He planned another robbery,
and threatened me into it. And from that
day to when he died last night, I was as
under his thumb as his bread and cheese.
There was no gainsaying him. He would
have his own way in everything. It was a
boast with him that he would, or he would
die for it.

Now, I’ll come straight to our latest and
last. We’re in June. It was on May the
15th that I met Bob, and he took me along
Baker Street into Portman Square. The
evening was foggy. They had lit the lamps
early. I was looking at the steam coming
off a horse’s flanks, when Bob gripped me
by the arm.

“ There ! ” he said, nodding.

“ Which ? ” I asked.

“Thirty-nine a,” he replied, in a whisper/

I looked at the house : the walls, in their
white paint, reflected the light of a lamp
smoothly ; the iron rails of its inclosure
were tipped with gold. It was one of the
largest in the square. My eye scanned the
rows of handsomely tiled window-boxes.

“ Let’s get a bit closer,” I said.

We moved forwards. The knocker of the
double door was of shining, heavy brass.
There was bright light in all of the windows.
And glancing below, I saw a dinner being
prepared by a white-capped man-cook.

“ It should hold something,” I remarked.

“ It does, you bet,” said Bob.

I looked at the house once more, care¬
fully, all over.

“ How about the back ? ” I said.

“ We sha’n’t trouble that yet awhile,” he
replied. And drawing closer to me, he

added, in a whisper, “They’ve a maidservant
who thinks she is the prettiest girl in
London.”

I laughed, guessing the lay at once.

“ Yes,” he grumbled, “ I ain’t handsome
enough for her. But you-”

I took him up short.

“ Psutt! I’ll twist her round my finger,”

I said.

The next day found me at a second-hand
clothes shop. Where? In the “Cut.”

“What for you, sir?” says the Jew in
charge.

“Same as last time,” I said. “Topper,
black morning coat and vest; grey pants.
Ah ! and I’ll have that tie,” I added, pointing
to a green silk. He did them up in a parcel.

I went home and dressed up fine. After¬
wards I went to a barber’s.

“ Shave and hair cut! ” I said.

Here I was very particular. “ Part me in
the middle,” I said, “and take care of the
curls.” He didn’t get them right at first.

“ No,” I says; “ I want ’em flat and more
down on the forehead.” And I pulled them
carefully into position, while he stuck ’em
there with one of his fakes.

I went straight from the barber’s to Port-
man Square. And a clock was just striking
three as she climbed up the steps leading
from the basement of 39A. Bob’s description
had been first-class. I knew her at a glance.

She turned towards Oxford Street, walking
as such girls do walk—as if she were treading
on eggs.

I let her get out of the square.

“ Pardon me, miss,” I said, mock respect¬
fully, stepping up from behind, “but I’ve
just come up from Fern Manor, and could
you oblige me with the way to Oxford
Street ? ”

And gently smiling to show my teeth, I
took off my topper to let her have a good
look at me.

She had pulled herself up stiff. Suddenly
she bridled and smirked. “ Tee-hee-hee ! ”
she laughed. “ I—I am just going there,”
she said. “ If-”

I flashed a ring on my finger.

We went on side by side. When we
parted, I was calling her “Jane,” and she
had promised to walk with me in the Park.

Within a fortnight I had the information
from her that we wanted. There were both
plate and jewels in 39A. We were going to
break in—indeed, we had settled the date —
when something she said changed our plans,

AN EXTRAORDINARY STORY.

621

“ I TOOK OFF MY TOPPER.”

“ She tells you that the family go to War-
hampton next week ? ” Bob remarked.

“She says so,” I replied. “The Colonel
has a country house near there, close to the
sea. And he is going down for his Militia
training.”

“Thirty-nine A will be a stiff nut to
crack ! ” Bob said, suggestively, blinking with
his eyes.

“ I have said so, all along,” I said.

“ There is still time and to spare. Yer
might see about the other,” he suggested,
after a pause.

I saw the girl that same evening.

“ Well ! ” said Bob, on my return.

“ They take their plate and jewellery with
’em,” I said.

“ But the house ! ” he exclaimed, im¬
patiently.

I began to describe it, accurately and
minutely, according to the description that
I had wheedled out of her.

“ It kill be twice as easy again ! ” Bob said,
when I had finished. “ We kill follow ’em
down.”

“ All right ! ” I replied. “ All right ! but

I haven’t told you one
thing.”

“What’s that?” he
asked.

“ She introduced me to
the butler, to-night. We
came upon him sudden in
Orchard Street.”

Bob started.

“Did yer carry it off?”
he asked, hastily.

“ I don’t know, I ain’t
sure,” I replied. “ He
looked at me suspicious
when she said that I was
her friend, Mr. Vere — the
owner of Canstead Manor.”

“ But he see yer face ! ”

“ I was in the light of a
lamp. He must ha’ done,”

I said.

“ That settles it! ” said
Bob, sharply. “The little
fool ’ull be sure to flaunt
yer in his face. . . . Yes !
men ain’t such fools as
women. . . . We ’ull leave
39A alone, and go down to
Warhampton after ’em. If
he has his suspicions, he
won’t think of that move.

. . . Aye 1 it ’ull be easier
and safer all ways.”

A week later, Bob and I—dressed as
“commercials,” and carrying the tools in
black bags—took our seats in an express.
The journey was a tidy long one. At length,
“ There is the sea ! ” I said, pointing out
of the carriage window. And the train
slowing down, we presently stopped at War¬
hampton.

There was a band of music playing outside
in the station yard. I could not hear what
the porter said. “ What say ? ” I asked.

“ Anything to come out, sir ? ” he said,
pointing to one of the vans.

“ No,” I answered. “ But wot’s on here
with the music ? ”

“ It’s some o’ the Militia a-goin’ off to Sea
View Forts,” he explained.

I nudged Bob.

“That kill be part of his rigiment,” I
whispered. “ The gal said they weren’t fur
from the Forts. He rides over the first thing
every morning.”

Outside in the yard, I wanted to stop and
have a look. But Bob was thirsty.

“Come on !” he said, impatiently. “You

622

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

can see a row of fools any time. I want a
drink.’ 5

We did not stay long in Warhampton.
The Colonel’s house was in a suburb—
Checkton — two miles out. There was enough
sun to make the waves sparkle. Every now
and again a breeze brought us the boom of
the guns that the Militia were firing some¬
where ahead. I did not object to the walk
along the shore. “ How would you like to
be aboard of her?” I asked Bob, jokingly,
pointing to a steamer lying at anchor in the
distance.

But his mind was on our coming job.

“ There is Checkton ! ” he said; and,
shading his eyes, he added, “That ’ull be

But we had no choice. If we had put it
later, we should not have had time to get
across country to the London express at
Blendon. And that was Bob’s plan for us,
after we had secured the plunder.

There was no moon. Through the sky of
drifting grey cloud, stars occasionally gleamed
like pebbles through a softly-flowing stream.
Beneath, there was light enough to show us
our way over an expanse of grey-green lawn
towards the dark mass of the house.
Avoiding a gravel path, we trod stickily over
a raised flower-bed into a small shrubbery.
We were through the latter in less than a
minute; and putting goloshes over our boots,
we . began to cross the cobble-stones of a

THAT ’ULL BE THE COLONEL’S HOUSE.”

the Colonel’s house to the left there, if I
ain’t mistook.”

Jane had described the Colonel’s house to
me as a square, white mansion, standing
close to some houses bordering upon a small
semi-circular bay. I saw the latter, with
boats and fishing-smacks lying idly upon its
shelf of mud. I saw the houses and the
church with the reddish spire that she had
mentioned. And sweeping my eyes to the
left, “Yes, that ’ull be the Colonel’s house,”
I agreed.

People usually sleep heaviest between two
and four in the morning. Why? I don’t
know, but they do. Soon after midnight we
scaled the iron railings surrounding the
Colonel’s gardens. The hour was an un¬
usually early one for such a job as ours.

yard. We halted right up
against the wall of the
house. Bob gripped me
by the arm. I stood
steady and dumb as a rock. A
breeze rustled some leaves by us.
Bob’s grip slowly slackened and left
my arm. I heard him fumbling at
his bag. There was a “ click,” and
suddenly the electric lamp which
he carried showed me the blank,
gleaming panes of a row of windows.
I pointed to the third from a door.

“The one with the blinds half-
drawn ! ” I whispered.

We moved to it like shadows.

Bob flashed the light within. We saw a
table, chairs, a great cooking range, and—

Yes ! it was the kitchen, as she had
described.

“ Right! ” I whispered. “The plate-room
lies at the back and to the left.”

I opened my bag.

“ Give me a bunch up ! ” I said. And
with a diamond I snicked round a pane.
Afterwards, drawing it to me with a big blob
of putty, I soon had my hand through and
under the lock.

Bob let me down. We shoved the sash
up, inch by inch. A smell of food whiffed
out. Presently it was wide open, so that we
could hear the tick of a clock within the
warm atmosphere. It seemed safe. Drawing
a revolver, Bob motioned to me to enter.

AN EXTRAORDINARY STORY.

623

“ Hist! what was that? ” he said, climbing
in by my side.

I pointed to the grate.

“ Nothing. The cinders fell in,” I
whispered.

We crossed the kitchen on tiptoe, and
cautiously opened its door. A passage lay
beyond. We trod over the cocoa-nut matting
of this till level with a door on the left. I
turned the handle very gently. It was
locked. “Yes,” I said, over my shoulder.
And Bob took out the tools.

It was a “ patent,” and it took us five
minutes’ difficult work before we entered.
The room was small, of oblong shape. The
first thing that I noticed was a dresser, with
brass-handled drawers underneath. It ran
round three sides of the room. Upon some
shelves above were some green-baize plate-
baskets. I looked into them : they were
empty. Then I began to try the drawers,
beginning from the right. The first was
locked; but tapping the bottom underneath,
I heard the clink of metal within. I went on
to the second and third : “ Locked, locked,”
I muttered. At the fourth, my attention was
taken by two strange objects upon
the dresser above. The beam of
Bob’s lantern did not lay there
very well. I turned round.

“ W-what are these?” I asked,
in a whisper.

He flashed the light more
plainly. “ They are orficer’s
glove-trees ! ” he explained.

I had never seen such things.

I took up one of the stiff wooden
hands to examine it closer. Just
then my elbow jogged the other,
which was standing upright, with
a white glove fitted upon it. It
rolled off the dresser. There was
a hollow thump. And a black
something, which it had struck at
my feet, sprang up and made for
the door. As it wriggled through,
there was time to see that it was
a cat. The brute had made me
start. I was trembling when I
began later to force the first of
the drawers.

Bob watched me for a while.

“ Here.! give me hold—you’ll
take all night over it,” he said,
impatiently. And seizing hold of
the jemmy, he rammed the sharp
end into a crevice. There was a
rending of wood, an explosive
snap, and the drawer was levered

out a couple of inches — the lock broken.
We judged the stuff at a glance. There
could be no mistake. “The genu-ine ! ” said
Bob, and he began upon the second drawer
still more boldly, reckoning that they would
not hear us in the other part of the house.

But he forgot the cat that we had let
loose.

“ What is it ? ” he said, when I seized his
arm, restrainingly.

“ I .... I thought .... Listen! ” I
said.

A thrill went through me.

I stepped lightly to the door and into the
passage. A few paces took me to a red
baize door. I opened it to listen better. A
man, in a nightshirt and trousers, was
advancing towards me with a lighted candle.
His eyes took me in staringly. The
moustache ! I knew him. It was the
Colonel himself. “They’re on us!” I
yelled; and slamming and bolting the door
full in his face, I turned and fled. Back
into the kitchen and through its window
Bob and I went anyhow. He reached
the shrubbery first. “Crash,” I fol-

A MAN WAS ADVANCING TOWARDS ATE.”

624

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

lowed him. Over the bed and on to the
lawn I went with a trip and a stumble.

“ H’Quick ! H’Quick ! ” I panted, when we
got to the rails. And the red flares, the
sharp reports of a revolver from an upper
window of the house, seemed to take the
senses from us—we ran on, on, till the boats
upon the seashore were before us. And how
it was is how it might be—Bob got in,
or I got in, or we both got in together; I
remember nothing till we found ourselves
lying, listening, out upon the sea.

The lights of Checkton had grown dim.
We had rowed some distance parallel with
the shore, and were thinking of pulling in
again to the land. Suddenly I turned my
head round towards the bow of the boat.
The handle of my oar struck Bob in the
back.

“What are you doing?” he said, looking
round.

I kept my eyes upon an oilcloth in the
bow. Presently, I was sure that there was a
movement under it. And raising my oar
from the rollock, I gave it a prod with the
blade. “ Bob 1 Bob ! There is someone
here ! ” I said.

The words were scarcely out of my mouth
when the oilskin rucked up into a heap. The
light was uncertain, but the- shoulders of a
man’s figure were not to be mistaken as he
sat up.

“ Halloa ! ” said Bob, blankly. “ Who is
that, there ? ”

“ I don’t know,” I said, watching the figure
rub its eyes.

“ Who are you ? ” said Bob, after a pause.

There was no reply.

“ D’ye hear, there ? ” said Bob. “ We’re
askin’ yer who yer are ? ”

The figure swayed, making the boat lurch.

“Take care!” Bob cried out, in alarm,
“ or you Till have us over ! ”

“ Who is he ? ” he asked me, again, ex¬
citedly ; adding, without waiting for a
reply :—

“ Here ! Stay ! Where is my lantern ? ”

I passed it into his hand.

There was a “ click,” and a ray of light
fell full upon the blinking eyes of a stranger.
His face was round and freckled : its ex¬
pression flaccid with sleep, its hair touselled.

Bob clambered past my side.

“ Why the deuce don’t yer answer who yer
are, man ? ” he said, threateningly.

The stranger opened his mouth. I re¬
member seeing the teeth. I shall never
forget the sound. Then he pointed with a
smile to his ears.

“ He is deaf and dumb ! ” I said, spas¬
modically.

Neither Bob nor I knew how to talk upon
our fingers. The appearance of the stranger
was a puzzle, till observing his ragged coat,
we guessed that he must be some waif of
Checkton who had crept under the oilskin
for sleep and shelter. Deaf and dumb, it
was only the motion of the waves or
my prod with the oar that had awaked
him. To arrive at this conclusion was
a relief to the alarm which his presence at
first occasioned us. And confident that
he neither heard nor understood what we
were about, we again gave attention to the
shore. It had receded, strangely, remark¬
ably, whilst we had been occupied with the
stranger. We recognised with a sudden
anxiety that it was now but a mere looming
at the water’s edge. I shoved out my oar in
a hurry. Bob and I began to row silently
and strenuously. We had not been at work
for a minute, when I felt a hand upon my
shoulder, and, scrambling with a heavy
breathing over my oar, the mute went on
past Bob to the tiller. Presently, he was
showing himself clever enough with the steer¬
ing ; and the queer cries that he gave every
now and again seemed to show that he was
as anxious as we were to reach the shore.

But, row as we might, we could not come
closer. Contrary, we seemed to be getting
farther away. Bob began to tire. “ Row
up !” I says. “For God’s sake, row up, or
the tide ’ull have us out to sea.”

It was no use. He slackened and
slackened. And later, when I turned to look
how we stood, I saw nothing but a white
veil: the current had taken us into a sea-fog.
That seemed to settle the matter. I pulled
in my oar in despair.

For the next two hours I don’t know how
we went. The fog came around us thicker
and thicker. We could see nothing but the
black, oily heave of the waves into it. Still
the current must have drifted us, for of a
sudden I heard a bell.

“ D’ye hear that ? ” said Bob. “ It sounds
like a funeral.”

“Tang! Tang! Tang!” I did hear it:
so hollow, so melancholy—it gave me the
shivers. But a funeral !

“Go on ! What next? ” I said ; and look¬
ing round, I suddenly saw a yellow light
sitting frouzy and high up in the mist.

We rowed for it straight.

But it was not so far off as it appeared to
be. A very few strokes, and we made out

AN EXTRAORDINARY STORY.

625

the dark bulk of a steamer lying at anchor :
the light was above her, the sound of a
solitary bell was clanging from her deck.

“ What is to be done now ? ” said Bob,
when our hail for help met with no reply.

“ Try again,” I said. “ Now together :
one, two, three.”

We listened, flashing Bob’s lantern.

There was the beating plash of our boat’s
bow ; and farther away, the slap and drawn-
out rush of the waves as they swept along
the steamer’s iron side.

“ They don’t hear us,” 1 said. “ Let’s
pull round her to
the other side.” I
turned to the mute.

P01 n t i n g to the
steamer, I made a
circular wave with
my hand.

He shook his
head. I did not
understand him.

And we began to
pull.

But the boat’s
head went away
from the steamer
instead of towards
her.

Bob turned
angrily round.

“ You’re taking
us wrong!” he
shouted to the
mute; and then
remembering, he
insisted upon what
we wanted with
passionate, forcible
signs.

The portholes of
the steamer showed
no light. We could
see no one upon
her decks : nothing
but a haze of yellow
light shedding itself downwards around the
black cylinder of the funnel. Suddenly
Bob caught sight of a something white hang¬
ing down her leeward side. He turned the
beam of his lantern upon it. We saw a
rope-ladder.

“ There yer are ! ” he said, hopefully ; “ we
can climb aboard by that.”

We bumped the steamers side twice before
I succeeded in fastening our painter to the
rope-ladder. I rose to my feet, preparing to

Vol xvii.—79.

climb upwards. At that moment the mute
drew my attention energetically upon him.
From his position in the stern, he was making
forcible signs to me not to ascend. I directed
Bob’s attention to him. The mute again
pointed to the steamer, and shook his head.
Waving his hand towards the sea, he after¬
wards pushed at the iron side of the steamer,
and, with a movement of the back and arms,
suggested that we should row away. There
was an earnestness and anxiety in his
expression that made me indefinably un¬
easy. Bob reassured me.

“ I don’t b’lieve
he is right in his
head,” he re¬
marked. “ But I’ll
watch him while
you climb up and
wake ’em.”

Bob was sitting
between the mute
and the painter
which kept us fast
to the steamer.

“ All right,” I
replied, after a
hesitancy. “ But
take care he
don’t get . at the
rope. Half a
chance, and I
b’lieve he ’ud let
yer loose.”

Being nervous of
the height, I
counted the rungs.
There were twelve
of them before I
reached the top.
The fog made the
light bad, and I
stumbled on to the
deck. Recovering
myself, I went right
under the lantern
where it was hang¬
ing from a mast. There was no one
to be seen. Aft beyond the bulky
looming of the bridge - house I could
hear the bell clanging mournfully. I
moved towards it, gradually getting into
deeper shadow, until I passed within the
draughty darkness of a passage leading by
the engines. I felt my way through this
over an iron floor littered with coal grit
to a deck beyond. Here in the fleece of
fog I made out a door dimly to my right.
“ Hoy ! ” I shouted through it into the

“ WE SAW A ROPE-LADDER.”

626

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

stillness, ‘‘lend us a hand below there,
will yer, please ? ”

My voice echoed hollowly amidst the
darkness into which I was gazing. I repeated
my cry. I would have descended ; but I
had left Bob’s lantern in the boat, and I
dared not risk a fall down the rungs of the
iron ladder that I felt. No one came. No
one answered.

I moved away to the bulk of a saloon
cabin facing the engine-room. The door
was open. I felt my way in to a long table.
I opened door after door of cabins ranged
around. The pallid eye of a porthole stared
at me through the darkness of each. When
I had called, naught broke their hush but a
muffled clang of the bell upon the deck
overhead.

“ Well ! ” said Bob, as I looked down upon
the boat.

I steadied my voice by an effort.

“ There is no one aboard,” I said.

He swore an oath of impatience and in¬
credulity.

“ Come and see fo* yourself,” I said, eager
for his company by my side.

Bob’s voice rose angrily : “ Yer may as well.
Yer ’ull have to come, yer know.”

“ Coax him ! ” I said, bending over the
bulwark. “ Coax him, Bob. Don’t treat the
poor devil rough.”

And presently the mute mounted first,
Bob after him.

Our search was thorough. There was no
one in the dismantled cabins either fore or
aft. We ascended an upper deck to the
bell. “Tang! Tang! Tang!” Its note was
mechanically beat and driven out across the
sea by an electric current. We descended
into the engine-room. We flashed our light
amidst great beams and cogs of steel. They
were rusty, motionless, suspended in their
iron gravity. The furnaces were black and
empty of fire. Strange, too ! opening the iron-
plated doors near by the boiler, we saw that
the bunkers were toppling-full of glittering
coal.

The mystery of the steamer’s desertion
seemed inexplicable. It oppressed me with
a vague fear of I knew not what. “ Speak
up, man,” said Bob. “ What are yer afraid of
—a ghost ? ”

And thankful to have a big deck instead
of a boat under his feet, he suggested that we
should sleep in three of the saloon bunks till
daylight broke and we could see where we were.
Bob was always masterful for his own way.
The fog was still thick, and the waves seemed
to be rising. I offered no objection, It was

different with the mute. So soon as he saw
that we were intending to make a night of it
on board, he recommenced his signs that we
should enter the boat and quit the steamer.
He was strenuous and persistent Bob
answered by shoving him into the saloon
and pointing to a bunk. The mute
turned to me appealingly. Again I was
struck by the anxiety and earnestness of
his face. There was a reasonable purpose
about the expression, which was not that of a
half-witted man, which seemed to confirm my
misgivings. Suddenly the creature seemed
to understand my thoughts: he took me by
the hand.

I started at his touch.

“ Half a moment, Bob ! ” I said, drawing a
piece of paper out of my left-hand pocket.
“ Have you a pencil about yer ? ”

The mute, seeing my lips move, looked
towards Bob for an explanation. The latter,
fumbling in a pocket, produced a small
end of greasy pencil. The mute gave a cry,
short, detached. He shook his head. No !
he could not write.

That finished up the remnant of Bob’s
patience. He began to pull the mute to¬
wards one of the bunks.

There was a sharp struggle, the mute
giving inarticulate cries. Once he broke
away ; but Bob was too quick, gripping him
again just as he reached the door of the
saloon.

“Gentle! I am treating him ‘gentle,’ yer
fule,” said Bob. He pushed and pulled the
mute into a cabin, turning the key upon him.
Then he faced me, panting, across the table :
“ He wun’t get the boat now,” he said.

I did not reply.

Bob had locked the mute into a cabin
near the entrance door of the saloon. We
ourselves entered into one more forward.
I don’t know why we chose this, unless it
were that there was a piece of carpet upon
the floor which made it look warmer than
the dismantled floors of the others. There
was no bedding in any of the berths.
“Which corffin will yer have?” Bob asked,
jokingly, pointing to the bare planks of an
upper and a lower.

\Ve had not laid ten minutes when Bob
jerked himself up in a passion. The cries of
the mute were reaching our ears. Bob
threatened and swore at him. There was a
whimper like a frightened dog’s. Then Bob
returned to me, and the vessel grew still as
death, save for the “ tang, tang, tang ” of the
Pioimiful bell above.

AN EXTRAORDINARY STORY.

627

Boo was soon off. I was awake a long
time : I fell asleep, I don’t know when.

There are times when one resists being
awakened. It is usually so after the body
has been greatly fatigued or the mind much
excited. In my drowsiness I grew conscious
of the cries : they distressed me. Presently
their persistency had its way : I was connect¬
ing them with the mute. I was vaguely
wondering how long it would be before they

aroused Bob. A sudden disturbance in the
berth beneath made me open my eyes. The
porthole was limpid with daylight. “ D’ye
hear the row that fellow is making again ? ’
Bob’s voice asked, angrily.

The light was too strong. I let my eyelids
fall sleepily. “ ’Es,” I murmured, wishing to
sleep again.

Bob stamped his foot passionately. I
heard him make a rush for our cabin door.
He threw it open, entering the saloon im¬
petuously. I heard his steps up to a certain
point. Then the affair happened — the shock
and crash, the convulsion of a thunderous

explosion, with whose flame of red light came
an instantaneous hail of stunning sounds
upon iron and wood. For a second I lay
stiffly passive in the outrageous hell of sound.
Then with a yell I rushed to the door of the
cabin.

A white, whirling smoke met my gaze.
Tinging with denser yellow at a suction, it
coiled and streamed aside so that I saw the
body of Bob lying upon his back. His arms
were stretched behind, his
legs apart. There was a
rending of wood. I saw the
mute tearing his way through
a whitely splintered door. I
remember nothing more till
I found myself in the open
upon the deck.

The steamer was an old,
disused hulk, bought by
Government. Dismantled of
almost everything save the
coal left in her bunkers, to
protect the boilers for experi¬
mental purposes, it had been
within the common know¬
ledge of Checkton that she
was anchored five miles off
Sea View Point to serve
as a target for the trials that
the Militia Artillery were
going to make with a new
gun. The mute knew this,
and had endeavoured to
prevent us from boarding
her. There was still a
possibility that our presence
might have been dis¬
covered before the artillery
opened fire. But we had
fastened our boat to lee¬
ward of the vessel. When
day broke it was perceived
neither from the shore battery nor from the
marker’s boat, anchored away to the right.
And it was only when the first shot had been
fired, and an officer came to examine the
effects of the hit, that our presence was dis¬
covered.

Till the moment that I was brought into
the orderly-room ashore, I had hopes of
escape. But it was not to be. The Colonel
recognised me at a glance. And according
to his orders that I should be handed over
to civil power, the soldiers handed me over.

“ Forty-one B,” I said, “ that is the true
story, and so I’ll tell ’em in court.”

‘d’ye hear the ROW that fellow is making again?”

The Sinking of . the “ Merrimack

By Richmond Pearson Hobson.

[The sinking of the Merrimac in Santiago harbour was one of those exploits which breathe the very spirit
of the romance of war. No forlorn hope more desperate can be imagined than the enterprise undertaken by
Lieutenant Hobson and his gallant crew of volunteers—to take their ship, by moonlight, into the narrow entrance
of a harbour charged with mines and guarded by the ships’ guns, the shore batteries, and the search-lights of
the enemy, there to blow her up with torpedoes and sink her (with themselves on board), so as to block the

channel against the exit of the Spanish fleet within. It was a hundred to one that not a soul of them

would return alive. The success with which the feat was accomplished—the applause with which the whole

world rang—will be fresh in the memory of our readers. We are glad to offer them the treat of reading an

account of this deed of daring written by the man who planned and executed it. Lieutenant Hobson s story is,
indeed, in one respect unique. We recall no instance in which such an exploit has been related by its chief actor
in words at once so simple, vivid, and enthralling. This story has recently appeared in a volume entitled “ The
Sinking of the Meirimac , by Naval Constructor Richmond Pearson Hobson” (published by Fisher Unwin).
The following pages, with illustrations done under Lieutenant Hobson’s own supervision, describe the actual
“run in” of the Menimac , the sinking, and the almost miraculous escape of the crew. But the whole
book, with its account of the preparations for the exploit, and of the truly noble treatment of the captives
by the officers of Spain, is more absorbing than most fiction. No lover of the gallantry and the chivalry of

war can afford to miss it.

At the moment when the following account begins, the position of affairs is this: The Merrimac , a large
collier, has been stripped, supplied with special means for speedy anchorage at the spot desired, and fitted with
eight torpedoes, slung outside, and fired by separate batteries on board. The time is a little after moonrise on
the night of June 3rd, 1898. The other vessels of the fleet have drawn off, and the fated collier, with her
little crew of heroes, is steaming slowly forward to her doom.]

Morro drew higher in the sky, and the western
side of the entrance, though dim as expected,
showed the bald spot of the sea battery on
top.

We were within live hundred yards, and
still no token from the enemy, though the
silence was ominous. Ah, we should make
the channel now, no matter what they might
do! I knew how long the vessel carried
headway, we were making nearly nine knots,
and soon the flood-tide would help, while we
had over seven thousand tons of reserve
buoyancy, which would carry us the required
distance even under a mortal wound.

Another ship’s length, and a flash darted
out from the water’s edge at the left side of
the entrance. The expected crash through
the ship’s side did not follow, nor did the
projectile pass over; it must have gone
astern. Strange to miss at such short range !
Another flash—another miss ! This time
the projectile plainly passed astern. Night-
glasses on the spot revealed a dark object—
a picket-boat with rapid-fire guns lying in the
shadow. As sure as fate he was firing at our
rudder, and we should be obliged to pass
him broadside within a ship’s length ! If we
only had a rapid-fire gun we could have

REPARATION was ended.
The road was clear. The
hour for execution had come.

The Merrimac was heading
about west-south-west. The
engine telegraph was turned to
“slow speed ahead,” the helm was put a-star¬
board, and we gathered headway and swung
round by the southward and stood up slowly
on the course. The moon was about an
hour and a half high, and, steering for the
Morro, we were running straight down the
reflected path of light.

As we stood on, the outlines of Morro
and other shore objects became clearer and
clearer. The blockading vessels were miles
behind. When we arrived within about two
thousand yards there could be no further
question of surprise. In the bright moonlight
we were in clear view, and our movements
must long since have caused suspicion. The
enemy was now doubtless on the verge of
sounding the general alarm, if indeed it had
not already been sounded.

Morro drew farther to starboard. It bore
north, then north by east, then north-north¬
east. We must keep clear of the two-fathom
bank and not overreach to the westward.

THE SINKING OF THE “ ME TRIM AC.

629

disposed of the miserable object in ten
seconds ; yet there he lay unmolested, firing
point-blank at our exposed rudder, so vital
to complete success. A flash of rage and
exasperation passed over me. The admira¬
tion due this gallant little picket-boat did
not come till afterward. Glasses on the
starboard bow showed the sharp, steep, step¬
like fall with which the western point of
Morro drops into the water. This was the
looked-for guide, the channel carrying deep
water right up to the wall. “A touch of
port helm ! ” was the order. “ A touch of
port helm, sir,” was the response. “ Steady ! ”
“ Steady, sir.” Now, even without helm,
we should pass down safe. Suddenly there
was a crash from
the port side. “ The
western battery has
opened on us, sir ! ”
called Charette,
who was still on
the bridge, waiting
to take the message
to the engine-room
if telegraph and
• signal-cord should
be shot away.

“ Very well ; pay
no attention to it,”

I replied, without
turning, Morro
Point, on the star¬
board side, requir¬
ing all attention.

The latter part of
the answer was
spoken for the
benefit of the
helmsman. “ Mind
your helm !” “ Mind
the helm, sir.”

“ Nothing to star¬
board ? ” “ Nothing to starboard, sir.”

The clear, firm voice of Deignan told
that there need be no fear of his distrac¬
tion. I estimated the distance to Morro
Point at about three ships’ lengths, and
wondered if the men below would stand
till we covered another ship’s length, two
ships’ lengths being the distance at which
it had been decided to give the signal to
stop. All of a sudden, whir! cling! came
a projectile across the bridge and struck
something. I looked. The engine tele¬
graph was still there. Deignan and the
binnacle were still standing. Two and a
half ships’ lengths ! Two ships’ lengths !
Then over the engine telegraph went the

order: “Stop.” Sure and steady the
answer-pointer turned. There need have
been no anxiety about the constancy of the
brave men below.

The engine stopped, and somehow I knew
the sea connections were thrown open.
This has been a puzzle to me ever since.
For how could the bonnet flying off, or the
axe-blows on copper piping, or the inrush of
water make enough noise or vibration to be
heard or felt on the bridge, particularly with
guns firing and projectiles striking? It may
be that the condition of expectation and the
fact of the fulfilment of the first part of the
order suggested the conclusion, but sure I
was that the connections were.open and that
the ship was begin¬
ning to settle.

“ You may • ‘ lay
down ’ to your tor¬
pedoes now, Char¬
ette.” “Aye, aye,
sir.” On the vessel
forged, straight
and sure the bow
entered. Morro
shut off the sky to
the right. The
firing now became
general, but we
were passing the
crisis of navigation
and could spare
attention to noth¬
ing else. A swell
seemed to set our
stern to port, and
the bow swung
heavily toward
Morro, which we
had 1 nigged close
i ntentionally.

“Starboard!”

“ Starboard, sir.” Still we swung starboard 1
“Starboard, I say ! ” “The helm’s a-star¬
board, sir.”

Our bow must have come within 30ft. of
Morro Rock before the vessel began to
recover from the sheer, and we passed it
close aboard. “ Meet her ! ” “ Meet her,

sir.” The steering-gear was still ours, and
only about half a ship’s length more and
we should be in the position chosen for the
manoeuvre. The sky began to open up
beyond Morro. There was the cove. Yes ;
there was the position ! “ Hard aport ! ”

“ Hard aport, sir.” No response of the
ship ! “ Hard aport, I say ! ” “ The helm

is hard aport, sir, and lashed.” “Very

RICHMOND PEARSON HOBSON, NAVAL CONSTRUCTOR,. U.S.N.
From a Photograph.

630

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

well, Deignan,” I said ;

“ lay down to your
torpedo.”

Oh, heaven ! Our
steering-gear was gone,
shot away at the last
moment, and we were
charging forward
straight down the
channel !

We must have had
four and three-quarter
knots’ speed of our
own, and the tide must
have been fully a knot
and a half. What
ground - tackle could
hold against a mass of
over seven thousand
tons moving with a
velocity of six knots ?

We stood on a little
longer to reduce the
speed further. A pull
on Murphy’s cord to
stand by—three steady
pulls—the bow-anchor
fell. A pause, then a
shock, a muffled ring
above the blast of
guns: torpedo No. 1
had gone off promptly
and surely, and I knew
that the collision bulk¬
head was gone.

If the bow-chain in
breaking would only
give us a sheer, and
the other torpedoes
proved as sure, we
should have but a short
interval to float, and,
holding on to the stern-
anchor, letting go only
at the last moment, we
might still effectually
block the channel. An
interval elapsed and

grew longer- no answer from torpedo No. 2,
none from No. 3. Thereupon 1 crossed the
bridge and shouted : “ Fire all torpedoes ! ”
My voice was drowned. Again and again I
yelled the order, with hands over mouth,
directing the sound forward, below, aft.

It was useless. The rapid-fire and machine-
gun batteries on Socapa slope had opened up
at full blast, and projectiles were exploding
and clanging. For noise, it was Niagara
magnified. Soon Charette came running up.

Itnndolph (lau :en.
Osborn Warren Deignan.
From]

George Charette.

Daniel Montague.

Fmnci8 Kelly.

THE MEMBERS OF MR. HOBSON’S GREW.

J. E. Murphy.
George F. Phillips.

[Photographs.

“ Torpedoes 2 and 3 will not fire, sir; the
cells are shattered all over the deck.” “Very
well ; lay down and underrun all the others,
beginning at No. 4, and spring them as soon
as possible.” In a moment No. 5 went off
with a fine ring. Deignan had waited for
No. 2 and No. 3, and not hearing them had
tried his own, but had found the connections
broken and the cells shattered. He then
went down to Clausen at No. 5. No other tor¬
pedo responded. No. 6 and No. 8 had suffered

THE SINKING OF THE “ MEM RIM AC.

})

the same fate as Nos. 2, 3, and 4. With only
two exploded torpedoes we should be some
time sinking, and the stern-anchor would be
of first importance. I determined to go
down aft and stand over to direct it person¬
ally, letting go at the opportune moment.

Passing along the starboard gangway, I
reached the rendezvous. Stepping over the
men, they appeared to be all present. There
was Charette, returned from a second attempt
at the torpedoes. There could be no further
hope from that quarter, and, oh ! there was
Montague! The stern - anchor, then, was
already gone. If the chain was broken, we
should have no further means of controlling
our position. Looking over the bulwarks, I
saw that we were just in front of Estrella,
apparently motionless, lying about two-thirds
athwart the channel, the bow to the west¬
ward. Could it be that the ground-tackle
had held ? Then we should block the
channel in spite of all.

I watched, almost breathless, taking a
range of the bow against the shore-line.
The bow moved, the stern moved-—oh,
heaven ! the chains were gone ! The tide
was setting us down and would straighten
us out if the stern should touch first. Oh,
for the war-heads to put her down at once !
But we were helpless.

There was .nothing further to do but to
accept the situation. We mustered, counting
heads, and thought all were present; but we

631

must have counted wrongly, for after a minute
or two Kelly came across the. deck on all
fours. He had done his duty below with
promptness and precision, and had come on
deck to stand by his torpedo. While putting
on his life-preserver a large projectile had ex¬
ploded close at hand—he thought against the
mainmast—and he had been thrown with
violence on the deck, face down, his upper
lip being cut away on the right side. He
must have lain there some little time un¬
conscious, and had got up completely dazed,
without memory. He looked on one side
and then the other, saw the engine-room
hatch—the first object recognised — and,
under the force of habit, started down
it, but found the way blocked by water,
which had risen up around the cylinders.
The sight of the water seemed to bring back
memory, and soon the whole situation dawned
upon him; he mounted again, and with
heroic devotion went to his torpedo, only to
find the cells and connections destroyed,
when he started for the rendezvous. He
had, indeed, brought his revolver-belt, so as
to be in uniform, and adjusted it after reach¬
ing us. His reception must have seemed
strange, for it was at the muzzle of my
revolver. Thinking that our men were all at
hand, it was a strange sensation to see a man
come up on all fours, stealthily, as it seemed,
from behind the hatch. Could they be
boarding us so soon ? My revolver covered

THE MERRIMAC AQROUND AND UNDER FJRE OFF ESTRELLA POINT,

63 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

him at once, and I looked
to see if others followed.
It was not until the revolver
was almost in his face
that the unusual uniform
showed that the man was
one of us. The idea of
the Spaniards boarding us
under the condition seemed

ridiculous the moment the
man was accounted for,
and the mental processes
and the action taken must
have belonged to the class
of reflex or spontaneous
phenomena. Charette told
me that he also, when he
saw the man, drew his re¬
volver with the idea of
repelling boarders.

We were now moving
bodily onward with the
tide, Estrella Point being
just ahead of the starboard
quarter. A blasting shock,
a lift, a pull, a series of
vibrations, and a mine ex¬
ploded directly beneath us.

My heart leaped with exul¬
tation. “ Lads, they are
helping us ! ”

I looked to see the deck
break, but it still held. I
looked over the side to see
her settle at once, but the
rate was only slightly in¬
creased. Then came the
thought, “Could it be that
the coal had deadened the
shock and choked the breach, or had the
breach been made just where we were
already flooded by sea connection and tor¬
pedo No. 5?” A sense of indescribable
disappointment swept over me. I looked
again : no encouragement. But, ah ! we
had stopped, Estrella Point had caught us
strong, and we were steadily sinking two-
thirds athwart. The work was done, and
the rest was only a question of time. We
could now turn our attention toward the
course of action to be taken next.

“ Here is a chock, sir, where you can look
out without putting your head over the fail,”
called Charette. The hole was large, just
above the deck, and well suited for observa¬
tion. It was doubtless a valuable find
of Charette’s, for the patter of bullets
had continued to increase, and now repeat¬
ing-rifles were firing down on us from

ON THE DECK OF THE “ MERRIMAC.”

Estrella, just above.* It is remarkable,
indeed, that some of these men did not see
us, for though the moon was low, it was
bright, and there we were with white life-
preservers almost at the muzzles of their
guns. The pouring out of ammunition into
the ship at large must have prevented
them from seeking special, targets with
deliberation.

The deafening roar of artillery, however,
came from the other side, just opposite our
position. There were the rapid-fire guns of
different calibres, the unmistakable Hotchkiss
revolving cannon, the quick succession and
pause of the Nordenfelt multi-barrel, and the

* While in prison the men were told by Spanish soldiers
that the troops of the 65th Regiment were lining the eastern
side of the entrance, and troops of the 75th Regiment the
western side ; and the writer was informed by a Spanish army
officer that troops were ordered in from far and near, a detach¬
ment from Santiago, of which he was a member, arriving only
as the Merrimac sank.

THE SINKING OF THE “ MERRIMAC.

633

tireless automatic gun.* A deadly fire came
from ahead, apparently from shipboard.
These larger projectiles would enter, explode,
and rake us ; those passing over the spar-
deck would apparently pass through the
deck-house, far enough away to cause them
to explode just in front of us. All firing was
at point-blank range, at a target that could
hardly be missed, the Socapa batteries with
plunging fire, the ships’ batteries with hori¬
zontal fire. The striking projectiles and
flying fragments produced a grinding sound,
with a fine ring in it of steel on steel.

The deck vibrated heavily, and we felt the
full effect, lying, as we were, full-length on
our faces. At each instant it seemed that
certainly the next would bring a projectile
among us. The impulse surged strong to get
away from a place where remaining seemed
death, and the men suggested taking to the
boat and jumping overboard ; but I knew
that any object leaving the ship would be
seen, and to be seen was certain death, and,
therefore, I directed all to remain motion¬
less.

The test of discipline was severe, but not
a man moved, not even when a projectile
plunged into the boiler, and a rush of steam
came up the deck not far from where we lay.
The men expected a boiler explosion, but
accepted my assurance that it would be only
a steam-escape.

While lying thus, a singular physiological
phenomenon occurred. After a few minutes,
one of the men asked for the canteen,
saying that his lips had begun to parch ;
then another asked, then another, and
it was passsed about to all. Only a few
minutes had elapsed when they all aslyM
again, and I felt my own lips begin to parch
and my mouth to get dry. It seemed very
singular, so I felt my pulse, and found it

* Just after the surrender of Santiago, when I went in to
assist Lieutenant Capehart, who was detailed to raise the mines,
I took occasion to look at the batteries on Socapa, and found in
place the following : in the sea battery, two 16-centimetre
(6‘3in.) breach - loading rapid-fire, and three gin. mortars,
studded system, old pattern; on the slope opposite Estrella,
one Nordenfelt 57-miilinetre rapid-fire, one Nordenfelt four-
barrel 25-millimetre, and four Hotchkiss 37-millimetre revolving
cannon. There were emplacements from which guns had been
removed, and it was impossible to tell what was the full strength
of the battery when the Merrimac entered. I was informed that
after the landing of United States troops a general redistribu¬
tion of artillery took place, guns placed along the entrance
being transferred to the defence of the city. I was also in¬
formed that the batteHes of the destroyers had been used ashore
at the entrance, but had been put back on the boats before they
left the harbour on July 3rd. It may be added that eight
observation mines were found to have been fired at the
Merrimac— all of the six from the Estrella station, and two of
the six from the Socapa station, leaving only four, there being
no material to replace the ones fired. Powell in his report of
his observations speaks of seeing seven simultaneous columns
of water as from torpedoes. As only two of my torpedoes
went off, and at different times, this would indicate that six of
these must have been from the Estrella station mines.

Vol xvii.— 80 .

entirely normal, and took account of the
state of the nervous system. It was, if any¬
thing, more phlegmatic than usual, observation
and reason taking account of the conditions
without the participation of the emotions.
Projectiles, indeed, were every moment ex¬
pected among us, but they would have been
taken in the same way.

Reason took account of probabilities,
and, according to the direction of the
men’s bodies with regard to the line of fire
from the ships’ guns, I waited to see one
man’s leg, another man’s shoulder, the top
of another man’s head, taken off. I looked
for my own body to be cut in two diagonally,
from the left hip upward, and wondered for
a moment what the sensation would be. Not
having pockets, tourniquets had been carried
loosely around my left arm, and a roll of
antiseptic lint was held in my left hand.
These were placed in readiness.

We must have remained thus for eight or
ten minutes, while the guns fired ammunition
as in a proving-ground test for speed. I was
looking out of the chock, when it seemed
that we were moving. A range was taken
on the shore. Yes, the bow moved. Sunk
deep, the tide was driving it on and straight¬
ening us out. My heart sank. Oh, for the
war-heads ! Why did not the admiral let us
have them ? The tide wrenched us off
Estrella, straightened us out, and set us
right down the channel toward the part
where its width increases. Though sinking
fast, there still remained considerable free¬
board, which would admit of our going some
distance, and we were utterly helpless to
hasten the sinking.

A great wave of disappointment set over
me; it was anguish as intense as the exulta¬
tion a few minutes before. On the tide set
us, as straight as a pilot and tugboats could
have guided. Socapa station fired two mines,
but, alas ! they missed us, and we approached
the bight leading to Churruca Point to the
right, and the bight cutting off Smith Cay
from Socapa on the left, causing the enlarge¬
ment of the channel. I saw with dismay
that it was no longer possible to block
completely. The Merrimac gave a pre¬
monitory lurch, then staggered to port in a
death-throe. The bow almost fell, it sank so
rapidly.

We crossed the keel-line of a vessel
removed a few hundred feet away, behind
Socapa; it was the Reina Mercedes . Her
bow-torpedoes bore on us. Ah ! to the right
the Pluton was coming up from the bight,
her torpedoes bearing. But, alas! cruiser

634

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

PI.AN OF THE MANCEUVRE AS EXECUTED JUNE 3RD, 1898—EXPLANATIONS.

1. Position when engine was stopped.

2. Position when helm was last in operation.

3. Position when bow-anchor was let go and torpedoes were fired.

4. Position when struck by mine explosion, just before starboard quarter grounded on Estrella Point.

5-7. Positions as the tide wrenched vessel ofT Estrella Point, and set her down channel—vessel gradually straightening out.

8. Position when sunk.

Submarine mines unexploded, mines Nos. 9, 10, n, 12.

H. Submarine mines fired at vessel, Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

*. Submarine mine that struck vessel, No. 5.

►». Automatic torpedoes fired by Reina Mercedes and Pinion.

Note.— The exact location of mines is not known. It would be perhaps fairly accurate to subdivide the distance between the
extreme positions into eight equal parts, following the middle of the channel.

and destroyer were both too late to help us.
They were only in at the death.*

The stricken vessel now reeled to port.
Someone said: “She is going to turn over
on us, sir,” to which I replied : “ No ; she
will right herself in sinking, and we shall be
the last spot to go under.” The firing
suddenly ceased. The vessel lowered her
head like a faithful animal, proudly aware of
its sacrifice, bowed below the surface, and
plunged forward. The stern rose and heeled
heavily; it stood for a moment, shuddering,
then started downward, righting as it went.

A great rush of water came up the gang¬
way, seething and gurgling out of the deck.

* It was found that the Reina Mercedes fired both bow-
torpedoes, and Admiral Cervera informed me afterward that the
Pluton had fired her torpedoes. The day following our
entrance, two automobile torpedoes were found outside, having
drifted with the current, and, what was remarkable, one still had
on the dummy, or drill-head. It cannot be said positively
whether any of the automobiles took effect. If they did, we
did not feel the effects where we were. In any case they
could not have appreciably affected the sinking.

The mass was whirling from right to left
“ against the sun ” ; it seized us and threw
us against the bulwarks, then over the rail.
Two were swept forward as if by a momen¬
tary recession, and one was carried down into
a coal-bunker—luckless Kelly. In a moment,
however, with increased force, the water shot
him up out of the same hole and swept him
among us. The bulwarks disappeared. A
sweeping vortex whirled above. We charged
about with casks, cans, and spars, the in¬
complete stripping having left quantities on
the deck. The life-preservers stood us in
good stead, preventing chests from being
crushed, as well as buoying us on the surface ;
for spars came end on like battering-rams, and
the sharp corners of tin cans struck us
heavily.

The experience of being swept over the
side was rather odd. The water lifted and
threw me against the bulwarks, the rail strik-

THE SINKING OF THE “ MERRIMAC:

635

THE SINKING OF THE “MERRIMAC.”

ing my waist; the upper part of the body
was bent out, the lower part and the legs
being driven heavily against what seemed to
be the plating underneath, which, singularly
enough, appeared to open. A football
instinct came promptly, and I drew up my
knees ; but it seemed too late, and apparently
they were being driven through the steel
plate, a phenomenon that struck me as being
most singular ; yet there it was, and I won¬
dered what the sensation would be like in
having the legs carried out on one side of the
rail and the body on the other, concluding
that some embarrassment must be expected
in swimming without legs. The situation
was apparently relieved by the rail going
down. Afterwards Charette asked : “ Did
those oil-cans that were left just forward of
us trouble you also as we were swept out ? ”

Perhaps cans, and not steel-
plates, separated before my
knee-caps.

When we looked for the
lifeboat we found that it
had been carried away.
The catamaran was the
largest piece of floating
debris; we assembled about
it. The line suspending
it from the cargo boom
held and anchored us to
the ship, though barely
long enough to reach the
surface, causing the raft to
turn over and set us scram¬
bling as the line came taut.

The firing had ceased.
It was evident the enemy
had not seen us in the
general mass of moving
objects ; but soon the tide
began to drift these away,
and we were being left
alone with the catamaran.
The men were directed to
cling close in, bodies below
and only heads out, close
under the edges, and were
directed not to speak above
a whisper, for the destroyer
was near at hand, and boats
were passing near. We
mustered : all were present,
and direction was given to
remain as we were till
further orders, for I was
sure that in due time after
daylight a responsible
officer would come out to
reconnoitre. It was evident that we could
not swim against the tide to reach the
entrance. Moreover, the shores were lined
with troops, and the small boats were looking
for victims that might escape from the vessel.
The only chance lay in remaining undis¬
covered until the coming of the recon¬
noitring boat, to which, perhaps, we might
surrender without being fired on.

The moon was now low. The shadow of
Socapa fell over us, and soon it was dark.
The sunken vessel was bubbling up its last
lingering breath. The boats’ crews looking
for refugees pulled closer, peering with lan¬
terns, and again the discipline of the men
was put to severe test, for time and again it
seemed that the boats would come up, and
the impulse to swim away was strong. A
suggestion was made to cut the line and let

6 3 6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

the catamaran drift away. This was also
emphatically forbidden, for we should thus
miss the reconnoitring boat, and certainly
fall into less responsible hands. Here, as
before, the men strictly obeyed orders,

though the impulse for safety was strong to
the contrary, and sauve qui pent would have
been justifiable, if it is ever justifiable.

The air was chilly and the water positively
cold. In less than five minutes our teeth
were chattering ; so loud, indeed, did they
chatter that it seemed the destroyer or the

boats would hear. It was in marked contrast
with the parched lips of a few minutes before.
In spite of their efforts, two of the men soon
began to cough, and it seemed that we should
surely be discovered. I worked my legs and

body under the
raft for exercise,
but, in spite of
all, the shivers
would come and
the teeth would
chatter.

We remained
there probably
an hour. Frogs
croaked up the
bight, and as
dawn broke the
birds began to
twitter and chirp
the bushes
and trees near at
hand along the
wooded slopes.
Day came bright
and beautiful.
It seemed that
Nature disre¬
garded man and
went on the
same, serene,
peaceful, and un¬
moved. Man’s
strife appeared a
discord, and his
tragedy received
no sympathy.

About day¬
break a beautiful
strain went up
from a bugle at
Punta Gorda
battery. It was
pitched at a high
key, and rose
and lingered,
long drawn out,
gentle and trem¬
ulous ; it seemed
as though an
angel might be
playing while
looking down in tender pity. Could this
be a Spanish bugle ?

Broad daylight came. The sun spotted
the mountain-tops in the distance and glowed
on Morro and Socapa heights. The destroyer
got up anchor and drew back again up the
bight. We were still undiscovered.

SPANIARDS SEARCHING FOR THE CREW WITH LANTERNS.

THE SINKING OF THE “ MERRIMA C.

637

Someone now announced: “ A steam-
launch is heading for us, sir.” I looked
around, and found that a launch of large
size, with the curtains aft drawn down, was
coming from the bight around Smith Cay
and heading straight for us. That must be
the reconnoitring party. It swerved a little
to the left as if to pass around us, giving no
signs of having seen us. No one was visible
on board, everybody apparently being kept
below the rail. When it was about thirty
yards off I hailed. The launch stopped as
if frightened, and backed furiously. A squad
of riflemen filed out,
and formed in a semi¬
circle on the forecastle,
and came to a “ load,”

“ready,” “aim.” A
murmur passed about
among my men:

“ They are going to
shoot us.” A bitter
thought flashed
through my mind :

“ The miserable cow¬
ards ! A brave nation
will learn of this, and
call for an account.”

But the volley did not
follow. The aim must
have been for caution
only, and it was ap¬
parent that there must
be an officer on board
in control.

I called out in a
strong voice to know
if there was not an
officer in the boat; if
so, an American officer
wished to speak with
him with a view to sur¬
rendering himself and
seamen as prisoners of
war. The curtain was
raised; an officer
leaned out and waved
his hand, and the rifles
came down. I struck
out for the launch, and
climbed on board aft
with the assistance of
the officer, who, hours
afterwards, we learned
was Admiral Cervera
himself. With him
were two other officers,
his juniors. To him
I surrendered myself

and the men, taking off my revolver-belt,
glasses, canteen, and life-preserver. The
officers looked astonished at first, perhaps at
the singular uniforms and the begrimed con¬
dition of us all, due to the fine coal and oil
that came to the surface ; then a current of
kindness seemed to pass over them, and they
exclaimed: “Valiente!” Then the launch
steamed up to the catamaran, and the men
climbed on board, the two who had been
coughing being in the last stages of exhaus¬
tion and requiring to be lifted. We were
prisoners in Spanish hands.

A Master of Craft.

By W. W. Jacobs.

III.

APTAIN FLOWER, learning
through the medium of Tim
that the coast was clear, came
on deck at Limehouse, and
took charge of his ship with a
stateliness significant of an
uneasy conscience. He noticed with growing
indignation that the mate’s attitude was rather
that of an accomplice than a subordinate, and
that the crew looked his way far oftener than
was necessary or desirable.

“ I told her we were going to France,” said
the mate, in an impressive whisper.

“ Her ? ” said Flower, curtly. “ Who ? ”

“The lady you didn’t want to see,” said
Fraser, restlessly.

“You let your ideas run away with you,
Jack,” said Flower, yawning. “It wasn’t
likely I was going to turn out and dress to
see any girl you liked to invite aboard.”

“ Or even to bawl at them through the
speaking-trumpet,” said Fraser, looking at
him steadily.

“ What sort o’ looking girl was she ? ” in¬
quired Flower, craning his neck to see what
was in front of him.

“ Looked like a girl who meant to find the
man she wanted, if she spent ten years over
it,” said the mate, grimly. “ I’ll bet you an
even live shillings, cap’n, that she finds this
Mr. Robinson before six weeks are out—
whatever his other name is.”

“ Maybe,” said Flower, carelessly.

“ It’s her first visit to the Foam, but not
the last, you mark my words,” said Fraser,
solemnly. “If she wants this rascal Robin-

“ What ? ” interrupted Flower, sharply.

“ I say if she wants this rascal Robinson,”
repeated the mate, with relish, “she’ll
naturally come where she saw the last trace
of him.”

Captain Flower grunted.

“ Women never think,” continued Fraser,
judicially, “ or else she’d be glad to get rid
of such a confounded scoundrel.”

“What do you know about him?”
demanded Flower.

“ I know what she told me,” said Fraser ;
“ the idea of a man leaving a poor girl in a
cake-shop and doing a bolt. He’ll be
punished for it, I know. He’s a thoughtless,
inconsiderate fellow, but one of the best-
hearted chaps in the world, and I guess I’ll
do the best I can for him.”

Flower grinned safely in the darkness.
“And any little help I can give you, Jack,
I’ll give freely,” he said, softly. “We’ll talk
it over at breakfast.”

The mate took the hint, and, moving off,
folded his arms on the taffrail, and, looking
idly astern, fell into a reverie. Like the
Pharisee, he felt thankful that he was not as
other men, and dimly pitied the skipper and
his prosaic entanglements, as he thought of
Poppy. He looked behind at the dark and
silent city, and felt a new affection for it, as
he reflected that she was sleeping there.

The two men commenced their breakfast
in silence, the skipper eating with a zest which
caused the mate to allude impatiently to the
last breakfasts of condemned men.

“Shut the skylight, Jack,”said the skipper,
at length, as he poured out his third cup of
coffee.

Fraser complied, and resuming his seat
gazed at him with almost indecent expectancy.
The skipper dropped some sugar into his
coffee, and stirring it in a meditative fashion,
sighed gently.

“ I’ve been making a fool of myself, Jack,”
he said, at length. “ I was always one to be
fond of a little bit of adventure, but this goes
a little too far even for me.”

“ But what did you get engaged . to her
for ? ” inquired Fraser.

Flower shook his head. “ She fell violently
in love with me,” he said, mournfully. “ She
keeps the Blue Posts up at Chelsea. Her
father left it to her. She manages her step¬
mother and her brother and everybody else.
I was just a child in her hands. You know
my easy-going nature.”

“But you made love to her,” expostulated
the mate.

“ In a way, I suppose I did,” admitted the
other. “ I don’t know now whether she
could have me up for breach of promise,
because when I asked her I did it this way.
I said, 1 Will you be Mrs. Robinson ? ’ What
do you think ? ”

“ I should think it would make it harder
for you,” said Fraser. “But didn’t you
remember Miss Banks while all this was
going on ? ”

“ In a way,” said Flower, “ yes—in a way.
But after a man’s been engaged to a woman
nine years, it’s very easy to forget, and every
year makes it easier. Besides, I was only a
boy when I was engaged to her.”

“Twenty-eight,” said Fraser.

A MASTER OF CRAFT

639

“Anyway, I wasn’t old enough to know
my own mind,” said Flower, “ and my uncle
and old Mrs. Banks made it up between
them. They arranged everything, and I can’t
afford to offend the old man. If I married
Miss Tipping—that’s the Blue Posts girl—
he’d leave his money away from me ; and if I
marry Elizabeth, Miss Tipping ’ll have me
up for breach of promise—if she finds me.”

“ If you’re not very careful,” said Fraser,
impressively, “ you’ll lose both of ’em.”

The skipper leaned
over the table, and
glanced carefully
round. “Just what
I want to do,” he
said, in a low voice.

“I’m engaged to
another girl.”

“What?” cried
the mate, raising his
voice. “ Three ? “

“Three,” re¬
peated the
skipper. “ Only
three,” he added,
hastily, as he saw
a question trem¬
bling on the
other’s lips.

“ I’m ashamed
of you,” said the
latter, severely; “you ought
to know better.”

“ I don’t want any of your
preaching, Jack,” said the
skipper, briskly; “and, what’s
more, I won’t have it. I deserve more pity
than blame.”

“You’ll want all you can get,” said Fraser,
ominously. “ And does the other girl know
of any of the others ? ”

“Of either of the others—no,” corrected
Flower. “Of course, none of them know.
You don’t think I’m a fool, do you?”

“Who is number three?” inquired the
mate, suddenly.

“ Poppy Tyrell,” replied the other.

“ Oh,” said Fraser, trying to speak uncon¬
cernedly ; “ the girl who came here last
evening ? ”

Flower nodded. “ She’s the one I’m going
to marry,” he said, colouring. “ I’d sooner
marry her than command a liner. I’ll marry
her if I lose every penny I’m going to have,
but I’m not going to lose the money if I can
help it. I want both.”

The mate baled out his cup with a spoon
and put the contents into the saucer.

“I’m a sort of guardian to her,” said
Flower. “ Her father, Captain Tyrell, died
about a year ago, and I promised him I’d
look after her and marry her. It’s a sacred
promise.”

“ Besides, you want to,” said Fraser, by no
means in the mood to allow his superior any
credit in the matter, “else you wouldn’t do
it.”

“You don’t know me, Jack,” said the
skipper, more in sorrow than in anger.

“ No, I didn’t think
you were quite so
bad,” said the mate,
slowly. “ Is — Miss
Tyrell—fond of you?”

“ Of course she
is,”.said Flower, in¬
dignantly ; “ they all
are, that’s the worst
of it. You were never
much of a favour¬
ite with the sex,
Jack, were you ? ”
Fraser shook
his head, and,
the saucer being
full, spooned the
contents slowly
back into the cup
again.

“Captain Tyrell
leave any
money?” he
inquired.

“ Other way
about,” replied
Flower. “ I lent
him, altogether,
close on a hun¬
dred pounds.
He was a man of
very good posi¬
tion, but he took to drink and lost his ship
and his self-respect, and all he left behind
was his debts and his daughter.”

“ Well, you’re in a tight place,” said Fraser,
“ and I don’t see how you’re going to get out
of it. Miss Tipping’s got a bit of a clue to
you now, and if she once discovers you,
you’re done. Besides, suppose Miss Tyrell
finds anything out ? ”

“ It’s all excitement,” said Flower, cheer¬
fully. “ I’ve been in worse scrapes than this
and always got out of ’em. I don’t like a
quiet life. I never worry about things, Jack,
because I’ve noticed that the things people
worry about never happen.”

“ Well, if I were you, then,” said the other,

‘ i’m engaged to another

GIRL.”

640

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

emphasizing his point with the spoon, “ I
should just worry as much as I could about
it. I : d get up worrying and I’d go to bed
worrying. I’d worry about it in my sleep.”

“ I shall come out of it all right,” said
Flower. “ I rather enjoy it. There’s Gibson
would marry Elizabeth like a shot if she’d
have him ; but, of course, she won’t look at
him while I’m above greund. I have thought
of getting somebody to tell Elizabeth a lot
of lies about me.”

“ Why, wouldn’t the truth do ? ” inquired
the mate, artlessly.

The skipper turned a deaf ear. “ But
she wouldn’t believe a word against me,” he
said, with mournful pride, as he rose and
went on deck. “ She trusts me too much.”

From his knitted brows as he steered, it
was evident, despite his confidence, that this
amiable weakness on the part of Miss Banks
was causing him some anxiety, a condition
which was not lessened by the considerate
behaviour of the mate, who, when any fresh
complication suggested itself to him, dutifully
submitted it to his commander.

“ I shall be all right,” said Flower, con¬
fidently, as they entered the river the follow¬
ing afternoon and sailed slowly along the
narrow channel which wound its sluggish way
through an expanse of mud-banks to Sea-
bridge.

The mate, who was suffering from symptoms
hitherto unknown to him, made no reply.
His gaze wandered idly from the sloping
uplands stretching away into dim country on
the starboard side, to the little church-crowned
town ahead, with its outlying malt-houses and

neglected, grass-grown quay. A couple of
moribund ship’s boats lay rotting in the mud,
and the skeleton of a fishing-boat completed
the picture. For the first time perhaps in
his life, the landscape struck him as dull and
dreary.

Two men of soft and restful movements
appeared on the quay as they approached,
and with the slowness characteristic of the
best work, helped to make them fast in front
of the red-tiled barn which served as a ware¬
house. Then Captain Flower, after descend¬
ing to the cabin to make the brief shore-going
toilet necessary for Seabridge society, turned
to give a last word to the mate.

“ I’m not one to care much what’s said
about me, Jack,” he began, by way of
preface.

“That’s a good job for you,” said Fraser,
slowly.

“ Same time, let the hands know I wish
’em to keep their mouths shut,” pursued the
skipper; “just tell them it was a girl that
you knew, and I don’t want it talked about
for fear of getting you into trouble. Keep
me out of it; that’s all I ask.”

“If cheek will pull you through,” said
Fraser, with a slight display of emotion,
“you’ll do. Perhaps I’d better say that Miss
Tyrell came to see me, too. How would
you like that ? ”

“Ah, it would be as well,” said Flower,
heartily. “ I never thought of it.”

He stepped ashore, and at an easy pace
walked along the steep road which led to the
houses above. The afternoon was merging
and a pleasant stillness was in
the air. Menfolk
working in their
cottage gardens
saluted him as he
passed, and the
occasional white¬
ness of a face at
the back of a
window indicated
an interest in his
affairs on the part
of the fairer
citizens of Sea-
bridge. At the
gate of the first of
an ancient row of
cottages, con¬
veniently situated
within hail of
The Grapes, The
Thorn, and The
Swan, he paused,

SGABK1DGK.

A MASTER OF CRAFT.

641

and, walking up the trim-kept garden path,
knocked at the door.

It was opened by a stranger—a woman
of early middle age, dressed in a style to
which the inhabitants of the row had long
been unaccustomed. The practised eye of
the skipper at once classed her as “rather
good-looking.”

“Captain Barber’s in the garden,” she
said, smiling. “He wasn’t expecting you’d
be up just yet.”

The skipper followed her in silence, and,
after shaking hands with the short, red-faced
man with the grey beard and shaven lip, who
sat with a paper on his knee, stood watching
in blank astonishment as the stranger care¬
fully filled the old man’s pipe and gave him a
light. Their eyes meeting, the uncle winked
solemnly at the nephew.

“ This is Mrs. Church,”
he said, slowly; “ this
is my nevy, Cap’n Fred
Flower.”

“ I should have known
him anywhere,” declared
Mrs. Church ; “ the like¬
ness is wonderful.”

Captain Barber
chuckled — loudly
enough for them to hear.

“ Me and Mrs. Church
have been watering the
flowers,” he said. “ Give
’em a good watering, we
have.”

“I never really knew
before what a lot there
was in watering,” ad¬
mitted Mrs. Church.

“ There’s a right way
and a wrong in doing everything,

Captain Barber, severely; “ most people
chooses the wrong. If it wasn’t so, those of
us who have got on, wouldn’t have got on.”

“That’s very true,” said Mrs. Church,
shaking her head.

“ And them as haven’t got on would have
got on,” said the philosopher, following
up his train of thought. “ If you would just
go out and get them things I spoke to you
about, Mrs. Church, we shall be all right.”

“ Who is it ? ” inquired the nephew, as
soon as she had gone.

Captain Barber looked stealthily round,
and, for the second time that evening, winked
at his nephew.

“ A visitor ? ” said Flower.

Captain Barber winked again, and then
laughed into his pipe until it gurgled.

Vol. xvii.— 81 .

“ It’s a little plan o’ mine,” he said, when
he had become a little more composed.
“ She’s my housekeeper.”

“ Housekeeper ? ” repeated the astonished
Flower.

“ Bein’ all alone here,” said Uncle Barber,
“ I think a lot. I sit an’ think until I get an
idea. It comes quite sudden like, and I
wonder I never thought of it before.”

“But what did you want a housekeeper
for ? ” inquired his nephew. “ Where’s
Lizzie ? ”

“ I got rid of her,” said Captain Barber.
“ I got a housekeeper because I thought it

I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN HIM ANYWHERE.”

was time you got married. Now do you
see ? ”

“ No,” said Flower, shortly.

Captain Barber laughed softly and, re¬
lighting his pipe which had gone out, leaned
back in his chair and again winked at his
indignant nephew.

“ Mrs. Banks,” he said, suggestively.

His nephew gazed at him blankly.

Captain Barber, sighing good-naturedly at
his dulness, turned his chair a bit and
explained the situation.

“ Mrs. Banks won’t let you and Elizabeth
marry till she’s gone,” said he.

His nephew nodded.

“ I’ve been at her ever so long,” said the

642

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

other, “but she’s firm. Now I’m trying
artfulness. I’ve got a good-looking house¬
keeper—she’s the pick o’ seventeen what all
come here Wednesday morning — and I’m
making love to her.”

“ Making love to her,” shouted his nephew,
gazing wildly at the venerable bald head with
the smoking-cap resting on one huge ear.

“ Making love to her,” repeated Captain
Barber, with a satisfied air. “ What’ll happen?
Mrs. Banks, to prevent me getting married,
as she thinks, will give her con¬
sent to you an’ Elizabeth getting
tied up.”

“Haven’t you
ever heard of

‘the pick o’ seventeen.’

Barber, thoughtfully. “ I can’t say as I find
it disagreeable. I was always one to take a
little notice of the sects.”

He got up to go indoors. “Never mind
about them,” he said, as his nephew was
about to follow with the chair and his tobacco-
jar; “Mrs. Church likes to do that herself, and
she’d be disappointed if anybody else did it.”

His nephew followed him to the house in
silence, listening later on with a gloomy
feeling of alarm to the conversation at the
supper-table. The role of
gooseberry was new to
him, and when Mrs.
Church got up from
the table for the
sole purpose of
proving her conten¬
tion that Captain
Barber looked
better in his black
velvet smoking-cap
than the one he
was wearing, he was
almost on the point
of exceeding his
duties.

He took the
mate into his con¬
fidence the next
day, and asked him
what he thought of
it. Fraser said that
it was evidently in
the blood, and,
being pressed with
some heat for an
PYnlanatinn. said

breach of promise cases ? ” asked his nephew,
aghast.

“There’s no fear o’ that,” said Captain
Barber, confidently. “It’s all right with
Mrs. Church: she’s a widder. A widder
ain’t like a young girl : she knows you don’t
mean anything.”

It was useless to argue with such stupendous
folly; Captain Flower tried another tack.

“And suppose Mrs. Church gets fond of
you,” he said, gravely. “ It doesn’t seem right
to trifle with a woman’s affections like that.”

“ I won’t go too far,” said the lady-killer in
the smoking-cap, reassuringly.

“ Elizabeth and her mother are still away,
I suppose ? ” said Flower, after a pause.

His uncle nodded.

“ So, of course, you needn’t do much love-
making till they come back,” said his nephew;
“ it’s waste of time, isn’t it ? ”

“ I’ll just keep my hand in,” said Captain

that he meant Captain Barber’s blood.

“It’s bad, any way I look at it,” said
Flower ; “ it may bring matters between me
and Elizabeth to a head, or it may end in
my uncle marrying the woman.”

“Very likely both,” said Fraser, cheer¬
fully. “ Is this Mrs. Church good-looking?”

“I can hardly say,” said Flower, pon¬
dering.

“Well, good-looking enough for you to
feel inclined to take any notice of her?”
asked the mate.

“ When you can talk seriously,” said the
skipper, in great wrath, “ I’ll be pleased to
answer you. Just at present I don’t feel in
the sort of temper to be made fun of.”

He walked off in dudgeon, and, until they
were on their way to London again, treated
the mate with marked coldness. Then the
necessity of talking to somebody about his
own troubles and his uncle’s idiotcy put the

A MASTER OF CRAFT.

two men on their old footing. In the quiet¬
ness of the cabin, over a satisfying pipe, he
planned out in a kindly and generous spirit
careers for both the ladies he was not going
to marry. The only thing that was wanted
to complete their happiness, and his, was
that they should fall in with the measures
proposed.

IV.

At No. 5, Liston Street, Poppy Tyrell sat at
the open window of her room reading. The
outside air was pleasant, despite the fact that
Poplar is a somewhat crowded neighbour¬
hood, and it was rendered more pleasant by
comparison with the atmosphere inside,
which from a warm,
soft smell not to be
described by compari¬
son, suggested wash¬
ing. In the stone-
paved yard beneath
the window a small
daughter of the house
hung out garments of
various hues and
shapes, while inside,
in the scullery, the
master of the house
was doing the family
washing with all the
secrecy and trepida¬
tion of one engaged
in an unlawful task.

The Wheeler family
was a large one, and
the wash heavy, and
besides misadventures
to one or two gar¬
ments, sorted out for
further consideration,
the small girl was
severely critical about
the colour, averring
sharply that she was almost
ashamed to put them on the
line.

“ They’ll dry clean,” said her
father, wiping his brow with the
upper part of his arm, the only part which
was dry ; “ and if they don’t we must tell
your mother that the line came down. I’ll
show these to her now.”

He took up the wet clothes and, cautiously
leaving the scullery, crossed the passage to
the parlour, where Mrs Wheeler, a confirmed
invalid, was lying on a ramshackle sofa darn¬
ing socks. Mr. Wheeler coughed to attract
her attention, and with an apologetic ex¬
pression of visage held up a small pink

643

garment of the knickerbocker species, and
prepared for the worst.

“ They’ve never shrunk like that ?”-said
Mrs. Wheeler, starting up.

“They have,” said her husband, “all by
itself,” he added, in hasty self-defence.

“ You’ve had it in the soda,” said Mrs.
Wheeler, disregarding.

“I’ve not,” said Mr. Wheeler, vehemently.
“ I’ve got the two tubs there, flannels in one
without soda, the other things in the other
with soda. It’s bad stuff, that’s what it is. I
thought I’d show you.”

“ It’s management they want,” said Mrs.
Wheeler, wearily; “ it’s the touch you have
to give ’em. I can’t
explain, but I know
they wouldn’t have
gone like that if I’d
done ’em. What’s
that you’re hiding
behind you?”

Thus attacked, Mr.
Wheeler produced his
other hand, and shak¬
ing out a blue and
white shirt, showed
how the blue had
been wandering over
the white territory,
and how the white
had apparently
accepted a permanent
occupation.

“ What do you say
to that ?” he inquired,
desperately.

“You’d better ask
Bob what he says,”
said his wife, aghast;

“ you know how per-
tickler he is, too. I told
you as plain as a woman
could speak not to boil
that shirt.”

“ Well, it can’t be
helped,” said Mr.
Wheeler, with a philo¬
sophy he hoped his son would imitate. “ I
wasn’t brought up to the washing, Polly.”

“ It’s a sin to spoil good things like that,”
said Mrs. Wheeler, fretfully. “ Bob’s quite
the gentleman—he will buy such expensive
shirts. Take it away, I can’t bear to look
at it.”

Mr. Wheeler, considerably crestfallen, was
about to obey, when he was startled by a
knock at the door.

“ That’s Captain Flower, I expect,” said

DOING THE FAMILY WASHING.”

644

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

his wife, hastily; “ he’s going to take Poppy
and Emma to a theatre to-night. Don’t let
him see you in that state, Peter.”

But Mr. Wheeler was already fumbling at
the strings of his apron, and, despairing of
undoing it, broke the string, and pitched it
with the other clothes under the sofa and
hastily donned his coat.

“ Good-evening,” said Flower, as Mr.
Wheeler opened the door ; “ this is my mate.”

“ Glad to see you, sir,” said Mr. Wheeler.

The mate made his acknowledgments, and
having shaken hands, carefully wiped his
down the leg of his trousers.

“ Moist hand you’ve got, Wheeler,” said
Flower, who had been doing the same thing.

“ Got some dye on ’em at the docks,”
said Wheeler, glibly. “ I’ve ’ad ’em in soak.”

Flower nodded, and after a brief exchange
of courtesies with Mrs. Wheeler as he passed
the door, led the way up the narrow staircase
to Miss Tyrell’s room.

“ I brought him with me, so that he’ll
be company for Emma Wheeler,” said the
skipper, as Fraser shook hands with her,
“ and you must look sharp if you want to get
good seats.”

“ I’m ready all but my hat and jacket,”
said Poppy, “and Emma’s in her room
getting ready, too. All the children are up
there helping her.”

Fraser opened his eyes at such a toilet,
and began secretly to wish that he had paid
more attention to his own.

“ I hope you’re not shy ? ” said Miss Tyrell,
who found his steadfast gaze somewhat
embarrassing.

Fraser shook his head. “ No, I’m not
shy,” he said, quietly.

“Because Emma didn’t know you were
coming,” continued Miss Tyrell, “and she’s
always shy. So you must be bold, you
know.”

The mate nodded as confidently as he
could. “ Shyness has never been one of my
failings,” he said, nervously.

Further conversation was
rendered difficult, if not im¬
possible, by one which now
took place outside. It was
conducted between a small
Wheeler on the top of the
stairs and Mrs. Wheeler in
the parlour below. The
subject was hairpins, an
article in which it appeared
Miss Wheeler was lamentably
deficient, owing, it was sug¬
gested, to a weakness of Mrs.
Wheeler’s for picking up stray
ones and putting in her hair.
The conversation ended in
Mrs. Wheeler, w’hose thin
voice was heard hotly com¬
bating these charges, parting
with six, without prejudice;
and a few minutes later Miss
Wheeler, somewhat flushed,
entered the room and was
introduced to the mate.

“All ready?” inquired Flower, as Miss
Tyrell drew on her gloves.

They went downstairs in single file, the
builder of the house having left no option in
the matter, while the small Wheelers, breath-
. ing hard with excitement, watched them over
the balusters. Outside the house the two
ladies paired off, leaving the two men to
follow behind.

The mate noticed, with a strong sense of his
own unworthiness, that the two ladies seemed
thoroughly engrossed in each other’s com¬
pany, and oblivious to all else. A suggestion
from Flower that he should close up and take
off Miss Wheeler seemed to him to border
upon audacity, but he meekly followed Flower
as that bold mariner ranged himself alongside
the girls, and-taking two steps on the curb
and three in the gutter, walked along for some
time trying to think of something to say.

“ There ain’t room for four abreast,” said
Flower, who had been scraping against the
wall. “ We’d better split up into twos.”

“ ‘ GOOD EVENING,’ SAID FLOWER ; ‘ THIS IS MY MATE.’

A MASTER OF CRAFT.

645

At the suggestion the ladies drifted apart,
and Flower, taking Miss TyrelFs arm,
left the mate behind with Miss Wheeler,
nervously wondering whether he ought to do
the same.

“ I hope it won’t rain,” he said, at last.

“ I hope not,” said Miss Wheeler, glancing
up at a sky which was absolutely cloudless.

“ So bad for ladies’ dresses,” continued the
mate.

“ What is ? ” inquired Miss Wheeler, who
had covered some distance since the last
remark.

“ Rain,” said the mate, quite freshly. “ I
don’t think we shall have any, though.”

Miss Wheeler, whose life had been passed
in a neighbourhood in which there was only
one explanation for such conduct, concluded
that he had been drinking, and, closing her
lips tightly, said no more until they reached
the theatre.

“ Oh, they’re going in,” she said, quickly ;
“we shall get a bad seat.”

“ Hurry up,” cried Flower, beckoning.

“ I’ll pay,” whispered the mate.

“No, I will,” said Flower. “ Well, you
pay for one and I’ll pay for one, then.”

He pushed his way to the window and
bought a couple of pit-stalls; the mate, who
had not consulted him, bought upper-circles,
and, with a glance at the ladies, pushed open
the swing-doors.

“ Come on,” he said, excitedly ; and several
people racing up the broad, stone stairs, he
and Miss Tyrell raced with them.

“ Round this side,” he cried, hastily, as he
gave up the tickets, and, followed by Miss
Tyrell, hastily secured a couple of seats at
the end of the front row.

“ Best seats in the house almost,” said
Poppy, cheerfully.

“ Where are the others ? ” said Fraser,
looking round.

“ Coming on behind, I suppose,” said
Poppy, glancing over her shoulder.

“I’ll change places when they arrive,”
said the other, apologetically; “something’s
detained them, I should think. I hope
they’re not waiting for us.”

He stood looking about him uneasily as
the seats behind rapidly filled, and closely
scanned their occupants, and then, leaving
his hat on the seat, walked back in per¬
plexity to the door.

“Never mind,” said Miss Tyrell, quietly,
as he came back. “ I daresay they’ll find
us.”

Fraser bought a programme and sat down,
the brim of Miss Tyrell’s hat touching his

face as she bent to peruse it. With her
small gloved finger she pointed out the
leading characters, and taking no notice of
his restlessness, began to chat gaily about
the plays she had seen, until a tuning of
violins from the orchestra caused her to
lean forward, her lips parted and her eyes
beaming with anticipation.

“ I do hope the others have got good
seats,” she said, softly, as the overture
finished; “that’s everything, isn’t it?”

“ I hope so,” said Fraser.

He leaned forward, excitedly. Not because
the curtain was rising, but because he had
just caught sight of a figure standing up in
the centre of the pit-stalls. He had just
time to call his companion’s attention to it
when the figure, in deference to the threats
and entreaties of the people behind, sat down
and was lost in the. crowd.

“ They have got good seats,” said Miss
Tyrell. “ I’m so glad. What a beautiful
scene.”

The mate, stifling his misgivings, gave him¬
self up to the enjoyment of the situation,
which included answering the breathless
whispers of his neighbour when she missed
a sentence, and helping her to discover the
identity of the characters from the programme
as they appeared.

“ I should like it all over again,” said Miss
Tyrell, sitting back in her seat, as the
curtain fell on the first act.

Fraser agreed with her. He was closely
watching the pit-stalls. In the general
movement on the part of the audience
which followed the lowering of the curtain,
the master of the Foam was the first on
his feet.

“ I’ll go down and send him up,” said
Fraser, rising.

Miss Tyrell demurred, and revealed an
unsuspected timidity of character. “ I don’t
like being left here all alone,” she remarked.
“ Wait till they see us.”

She spoke in the plural, for Miss Wheeler,
who found the skipper exceedingly bad com¬
pany, had also risen, and was scrutinizing the
house with a gaze hardly less eager than his
own. A suggestion of the mate that he
should wave his handkerchief w r as promptly
negatived by Miss Tyrell, on the ground that
it would not be the correct thing to do in
the upper-circle, and they were still undis¬
covered when the curtain went up for the
second act, and strong and willing hands
from behind thrust the skipper back into his
seat.

“ I expect you’ll catch it,” said Miss Tyrell,

6 4 6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

softly, as the performance came to an end ;
“ we’d better go down and wait for them out¬
side. I never enjoyed a piece so much.”

The mate rose and mingled with the
crowd, conscious of a little occasional clutch
at his sleeve whenever other people threatened
to come between them. Outside the crowd
dispersed slowly, and it was some minutes
before they discovered a small but compact
knot of two waiting for them.

“ Where the-” began Flower.

“ I hope you
enjoyed the per¬
formance, Captain

(LWk
P' W

THE CROWD DISPERSED SLOWLY.

Flower,” said Miss Tyrell, drawing her¬
self up with some dignity. “ I didn’t know
that I was supposed to look out for myself
all the evening. If it hadn’t been for Mr.
Fraser I should have been all alone.”

She looked hard at Miss Wheeler as she
spoke, and the couple from the pit-stalls
reddened with indignation at being so mis¬
understood.

“ I’m sure I didn’t want him,” said Miss
Wheeler, hastily. “Two or three times I
thought there would have been a fight with
the people behind.”

“ Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Miss Tyrell,

composedly. “ Well, it’s no good standing
here. We’d better get home.”

She walked off with the mate, leaving the
couple behind, who realized that appearances
were against them, to follow at their leisure.
Conversation was mostly on her side, the
mate being too much occupied with his
defence to make any very long or very
coherent replies.

They reached Liston Street at last, and
separated at the door, Miss Tyrell shaking
hands with the skipper in a way which con¬
veyed in the fullest
possible manner
her opinion of his
behaviour that
evening. A bright
smile and a genial
hand - shake were
reserved for the
mate.

“And now,”
said the incensed
skipper, breathing
deeply as the door
closed and they
walked up Liston
Street, “ what the
deuce do you mean
by it ? ”

4 4 M e a n by
what?” demanded
the mate, who, after
much thought, had
decided to take
a leaf out of Miss Tyrell’s book.

44 Mean by leaving me in another part of
the house with that Wheeler girl while you
and my intended went off together ? ” growled
Flower, ferociously.

“ Well, I could only think you wanted it,”
said Fraser, in a firm voice.

44 What ? ” demanded the other, hardly able
to believe his ears.

44 1 thought you wanted Miss Wheeler for
number four,” said the mate, calmly. 44 You
know what a chap you are, cap’n.”

His companion stopped and regarded him
in speechless amaze, then realizing a vocabu¬
lary to which Miss Wheeler had acted as a
safety-valve all the evening, he turned up a
side-street and stamped his way back to the
Foam alone.

{To be continued.)

In Natures Workshop.

By Grant Allen.

VI.— ANIMAL AND VEGETABLE HEDGEHOGS.

AN was not the first inventor of
coats of mail and ironclads.
Two types of defensive armour
are common in nature. The
first type almost exactly
resembles the jointed plate-
armour of mediaeval knights : one sees this
kind well exemplified in the armadillo and
the lobster ; a little less well in the tortoise,
the beetle, and many hard-shelled insects.
The second type has no exact human
analogue : it is offensive and defensive at one
and the same time; one sees it exhibited in
the porcupine, the hedgehog, the bramble,
the thistle, and an immense variety of other
plants and animals. With this second group
the armour
consists, not of
plates, but of
prickly spines
or thorns,
which repel
assailants by
wounding the
tender flesh of
the mouth or
lips. Such
prickliness of
surface is per¬
haps the com¬
monest among
all the protec¬
tive devices
invented by liv¬
ing creatures :
it is remarkable for its universal diffusion
both in various countries and in various
classes. There are insect hedgehogs and
vegetable porcupines. Indeed, scarcely a
great order of plants or animals can be
named which does not contain at least one
or two such prickly or thorny species.

The common English hedgehog (shown in
No. i in two characteristic attitudes) makes
a good example of the prickly-armoured class
with which to begin the examination of this
interesting series. Everybody is tolerably
familiar with the hedgehog’s appearance—a
squat, square, inquisitive little creature, one
of nature’s low comedians, with very short

legs and no tail to speak of, but covered on
his back and upper surface with dirty white
spines, which merge more or less into
indefinite blackness. But if he is comic to
us, he is serious to himself. Slow and sedate
in all his movements, your hedgehog seldom
does anything so undignified as to run : to
say the truth, he is a poor racer; he is not
built for haste, but strolls calmly along on
his bandy legs, showing little sense of fear
even when surprised on the open, for he is well
aware that his coat of spines amply suffices
to secure him from aggression. The hare
trusts to his speed, the rabbit to his burrow;
but the hedgehog relies upon his prickles for
protection, and scorns to flee when he can

oppose to every
foe an effective
passive resist-
ance. His
bright, beady-
black eyes form
his one claim
to beauty:
they gleam with
cunning : save
for them, he is
a dingy and
u n a t tractive
animal. But
though he
belongs to a
very ancient
and honour¬
able . family —
that of the insect-eaters—long since super¬
seded in most of the high places of the
earth by younger and more advanced types,
he still manages to hold his own in
struggle for life against all competitors,
mainly by virtue of his excellent suit of spiny
armour.

The hedgehog is, on the. whole, a nocturnal
animal, like most of this early group of
insectivores to which he belongs. Now, as a
class, the insectivores have been driven from
the best positions in nature’s hierarchy by
the keen competition of the rodents, the
ruminants, and the carnivores ; they have
been compelled to earn a precarious living in

I.—HEDGEHOGS, ROLLED ^.ND UNROLLED.

6 4 8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

out-of-the-way corners by night prowling.
They are the gipsies and tinkers, the tramps
and beggars of the animal economy. Our
English hedgehog, one of the luckiest mem¬
bers of this persecuted class, lives usually in
some comfortable hole in a hedge or copse,
and sleeps away the daytime in owl-like
seclusion. When night comes, however, he
sallies forth on the hunt, in search of beetles
and other hard-shelled insects, which form
his staple diet, and for crushing which his
solid set of grinders admirably adapts him.
In winter, when insect food fails, he hiber¬
nates in his lair, rolling himself up in a thick
blanket of dead leaves for warmth : his spines
here stand him in good stead for a different
function from that of mere defence, for he
fastens the leaves on them as if they were
pins, and so keeps himself warm and dry
through the snows and frosts and rains of
winter. He has a tramp’s true instinct: he
knows how to make the best of poor sur¬
roundings.

With the first genial showers of April, our
prickly friend turns out once more, very thin
and hungry, in quest of the insects which are
then just emerging from their burst cocoons
or their snug winter quarters. Often enough
at this season he comes forth from his nest
with a layer or two of leaves still impaled
upon his prickles, in which condition he cuts
a most quaint and amusing figure. Every
evening he shuffles about awkwardly in search
of his prey, which consists mainly of beetles,
relieved by a pleasing variety of slugs, snails,
worms, frogs, and young birds, as well as
an occasional egg, and now and again a
snake or a shrew-mouse. Though despised by
man, in his own small hedgerow world
he is an undisputed tyrant, and has few real
enemies. Most higher animals are afraid
to tackle him. A dog will just sniff at him
with a dubious air of inquiry, but when the
spines prick his tender nose, he draws back
disgusted, and refuses to join battle with the
uncanny, bow-legged creature. Indeed, the
hedgehog’s only serious foe is the owl, which
has invented a special device for seizing him
unawares. Almost all other mouse and rat¬
eating species fear to engage so well-armed
an enemy.

The difficulty of the attack lies, of course,
in his spines, a first line of defence which one
may regard as typical of the tactics adopted
among the whole group of prickle-bearing
animals. These spines are hard in texture,
and'* very sharp at the point : cylindrical
in shape, and an inch long or there¬
abouts. They are lightly embedded in the

skin, and are so arranged that they can
be erected at will into a most aggressive
position. This trick of raising the spines
is managed by an extremely interesting
mechanism, something like the muscle by
means of which certain gifted persons (chiefly
schoolboys) can move and ruffle up the skin
and hair of the head just above the temples,
only on a much more extended scale of
organization. The set of muscles thus
specialized enables the animal to curl itself
about in the lithest fashion. When an enemy
approaches, the hedgehog does not flinch :
he simply rolls himself up into a round ball.
The South American armadillo does much
the same thing: only, when the armadillo is
rolled up, he becomes a mere hard sphere,
something like a bomb-shell : whereas the
hedgehog becomes an unapproachable globe
of fixed bayonets. He tucks his head and
legs well out of harm’s way under his lower
surface, and exposes only the spiny upper
portion of his back and body. A great
band of specialized muscle, assisted by
several subsidiary belts, draws his supple skin
tight over his whole body, and at the same
time points the sharp ends of the spines
radially outward. When a hedgehog is thus
rolled up into his attitude of passive defence,
no animal on earth can do anything with
him in fair open fight, though some few of
them have invented mean underhand tricks
for getting round him by artifice. Most of
these are too nasty for full description.
Rolling him into water and drowning him is
one of the least objectionable : but the
method pursued by his chief human foe,
the gipsy, though extremely cruel, is so
quaintly clever that it seems to deserve a
passing mention.

Gipsies never despise any form of wild
food, and they have hit upon a perfidious
dodge for utilizing the hedgehog. They
catch him alive, which is always easy
enough : for the little beast, trusting to his
array of spines, seldom runs away when
attacked, but contents himself with rolling
himself up into his spherical and apparently
lifeless condition. The season for hedge¬
hogs is at the end of autumn, when the
animal has fattened himself for his winter
sleep. Kneading a ball of moist clay, the
gipsies embed the poor creature in it entire,
so that spines and all are completely covered.
Then they lay the ball in their fire, and roast
the unhappy animal alive. As soon as the
clay cracks, the hedgehog is cooked : they
break the ball? and the skin comes off whole,
spines, clay, and all, leaving the steaming

IN NATURE’S WORKSHOP .

649

hot body baked and savoury in the middle.
I mention this curious but hateful trick
because it is very characteristic of the sort
of plan which many animals have adopted
for getting rid of the spines or hairs in
caterpillars and other protected but juicy
creatures. What man does intelligently, that
birds and quadrupeds also do and did before
him by inherited and acquired instinct.

When the little hedgehogs are first born,
the prickles are mere knobs, quite soft and
flexible. As the puppies grow older the
spines harden and become sharp at the
point, and the little beasts acquire by degrees
the power of rolling themselves into a ball
like their parents. This power serves another
purpose, however, besides that of mere de¬
fence : the spines and skin together form an
elastic mass, so that when the animal wants
to throw itself down a bank or precipice it
rolls itself up into its sphere-like form and
then trundles itself over the edge, blindfold
and fearless, trusting to its elasticity to break
the fall. When it reaches the bottom it
uncoils itself quietly and waddles off about
its business as if nothing had happened.
The beady black eyes tell the truth as to
their owner’s intelligence: the hedgehog is
an extremely clever and contriving creature.

It is interesting
to note, too, that
while in the main¬
land of the great
continents —

Europe, Asia,

Africa—the hedge¬
hogs and their like
are all spiny, and
possess the charac¬
teristic power of
rolling themselves
up into a perfect
sphere, there are
several half-devel¬
oped hedgehog¬
like creatures,
belated in various
outlying islands,
which are only rough sketches or imperfect
foreshadowings of the fully - evolved type.
Some of these, like the bulau of Sumatra,
have just a few stiff bristles scattered
about here and there among the hairs- of
the back ; others, more advanced, like the
Madagascar tanrec, have strong and; stiff
spines, but cannot roll themselves .. up into
a perfect sphere like the true hedgehogs.
Intermediate species also occur which more
and more closely approach our European

Vol. xvii.— 82 .

pattern. It is probable that these interest¬
ing undeveloped creatures represent arrested
ancestral forms of our own English type : but
that while in the great continents, the stress of
competition has resulted at last in producing
our highly - evolved form, a few outlying
groups in isolated lands (such as Haiti and
Mauritius) have retained to this day the
earlier features of certain primitive stages in
the history and evolution of the hedgehog
family. We have here, so to speak, all the
“ missing links ” in the development of the
group, preserved for our edification, like
living fossils, in remote and scattered oceanic
islands. Even so, while Paris, London, New
York, and Calcutta are civilized cities, the
Andaman Islander and the Melanesians of
the Pacific represent in our midst the
primaeval savage.

But the sea has its hedgehogs no less than
the land : and the close similarity between
the habits and manners of the two is a
beautiful exemplification of the general
principle that similar conditions produce
similar effects even in quite unrelated plants
and animals. The most interesting sea-
hedgehog is a kind of globe-fish, and it is
represented in its ordinary elongated swim¬
ming condition in No. 2. The porcupine-
_ ___ fish, as this odd

creature is often
called, has a
smooth, scaleless
skin, thickly
cov.ered at in¬
tervals with sharp
and stout spines.
When the fish is
swimming freely
about in search of
food, the spines
are retracted,
exactly as in the
hedgehog, and
point inoffensively
backward. But let
an enemy come
in view, and, hi
presto! what a change ! The porcupine-
fish follows at once the tactics of his terres¬
trial analogue, and converts himself into a
bristling ball of prickles, though by a-some¬
what different method. He rises to the
surface and swallows in haste a quantity of
air, which distends him instantly into
a perfect balloon, as you see in No. 3.
The skin is thus stretched tight like a drum,
and the sharp spines stand out straight in
every direction, forming a radial ball, exactly

2.—A SEA HEDGEHOG, -THE GLOBE-FISH, SWIMMING FREELY.

650

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

3 . THE GLOBE-FISH, INFLATED, WHEN DANGER THREATENS.

as in the case of the hedgehog. This erect
and threatening condition of the spines is
still better exhibited in No. 4, which shows
the porcupine-fish as a very tough morsel
for any aggressive shark or dogfish which
may be minded to attack it. Oddly enough,
the distention has one most unexpected result.
When thus inflated, as if he were a Dunlop
tyre, the fish becomes top-heavy, and turns
upside down, floating passive on the surface
with his back downwards. He does not
attempt to swim, but lets wind and current
carry him like a derelict vessel. Once the
danger is passed,
however, the fish
expels the air from
its mouth with a
gurgling noise, and
resumes its usual
free swimming atti¬
tude.

Few sea-wolves
of any sort will
venture to attack a
globe-fish in its
distended state:
those that do so
have often reason
to regret it. Darwin
mentions that
globe-fish have
frequently been
found floating, alive
and unhurt, within
the stomach of a shark that has swallowed
them, and even that one has been known
to eat its way bodily through the de¬
voured side, so killing its would - be
murderer. This feat is rendered possible by

the very hard and sharp jaws or beak
of the globe-fishes, which resemble the
hedgehog in this particular too — that
they crunch extremely hard food, such
as coral, shell-fish, and lobster-like
creatures, for which purpose their solid
tooth-like jaws are admirably fitted.

It is a pet theory of mine that what¬
ever an animal does, some plant does
also in all essentials. The hedgehog
and porcupine with their vegetable
imitators are good instances of the
truth of this rough generalization. For
there are plant hedgehogs and plant
porcupines as well as animal ones. The
most remarkable and strictly analogous
examples of these spiny plants are of
course the cactuses, which may be
regarded as in one sense the por¬
cupines, and in another sense the
camels, of the vegetable w r orld. Cactuses
grow wild only in very dry and poverty-
stricken deserts, not absolutely waterless
indeed, but given over for many months
of the year to unbroken drought, and then
drenched for a short time by the torrential
rains of the tropical wet season. Under
these circumstances, the cactuses have learnt
to store water in their own tissues exactly as
the camel does. They lay by, not for a
rainy day, but for a dry one. Their stems
have grown extremely thick and fleshy;
the outer portion is covered with a hard
and glassy skin,
which resists
evaporation ; and
w r hen the occa¬
sional rains occur,
the provident plant
sucks up all the
water it can get as
fast as it can suck
it, and lays it by
for future use in
the cells of the
bark and of the
spongy pith which
forms its interior.
Protected by their
layer of imperme¬
able skin and their
immense bulk
from the parching
sun and dry winds
of the Mexican desert, the wily cactuses
are thus enabled to hold out for months
against continuous droughts, exactly as the
camel holds out through a long march by
means of the water he has similarly stored

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

in his capacious and spongy stomach. They
are, in fact, living reservoirs, which act as
tanks for their own water-supply.

But the cactus has no green leaves ; or,
rather, lest some clever critic should come
down upon me, after the clever critic’s wont,
for this too sweeping generalization, I
will say more guardedly, only a few half-
developed and untypical cactuses have a
few green leaves of the ordinary pattern : and
these few species are not adapted for the
most desert conditions. For clearly in very
hot and dry countries thin green leaves would
be worse than useless : they would be wilted
up by the heat of the sun at once, and the
plant would die for want of its accustomed
mouths and stomachs. Hence almost all
trees and shrubs which grow in very dry and
hot regions have given up producing real
leaves of any sort. In the Australian desert,
it is true, the trees are covered with what
look like leaves, but these are in reality
thick flattened leaf-stalks : and even the leaf¬
stalks are all placed vertically, not horizon¬
tally, on the stems—stand with their flat
edge or expanded surface sideways, up and
down, instead of being extended parallel to
the soil, to catch the sunlight: they are thus
struck by the oblique rays in the early morn¬
ing and late evening, when the sun has little
power, but not by the
direct and scorching
rays of midday, which
would burn them up
and wither them. It
is this peculiarity of
vertical foliage (or
what looks like foliage)
which gives rise to the
well-known shadeless-
ness of the dreary Aus¬
tralian gum-tree forests.

In the dry region of
America, on the other
hand, most of the
plants have given up
the vain attempt to
produce leaves alto¬
gether, or even to
imitate leaves by
flattened branches:
they let the green stem
do all the work of
eating and assimilating
usually performed by
the true foliage. That
is why most cactuses
have nothing that
ordinary people would

6 5 i

regard as bark : the whole exposed surface
of the plant has to be green, because it
contains the chlorophyll or living digestive
material which assimilates fresh food: the
cactus eats with every fold of its skin or
exterior layer. In reality, this exposed
portion is all bark, from a botanical point of
view: and so is the greater part of the
internal water-storing pith or spongy matter.
But it is green bark, not brown : bark which
has assumed the function of leaves under
stress of circumstances. •

Now, you will readily understand that, in a
thirsty land, a plant so full of stored-up water
as the various species of cactus must be very
liable to attack from animals of all sizes.
Any unarmed and unprotected kinds must
thus from the very beginning of their family
history have been greedily devoured by the
herbivores of the desert. The consequence
is that only the best protected and most
hedgehog-like species have survived to our
day, especially in the driest portions of
the desert country. Nature is a great utilizer
of odds and ends: she always finds some
unexpected use for discarded organs. The
cactuses, thus placed, and having nothing
more for their leaves to do in the ordinary
way of business, invented a new function for
them by turning them into spines to protect
the precious store of
internal water laid by
in the spongy pith for
the plant’s own pur¬
poses. To deter thieves
from breaking in and
stealing this valuable
deposit, they made
their leaves ever
shorter and stifler, till
at last they have
assumed in many cases
the form of regular
rosettes of prickles,
disposed in tufts over
the whole surface of
the plant that bears
them. No. 5 shows us
an excellent instance
of these prickly and
repellent desert types,
a tall cactus which
imitates in many ways
a hedgehog, or still
more closely a sea-
urchin. No. 6 is an
enlarged view of the
top of the same plant,
showing the thick

5 .—A VEGETABLE HEDGEHOG, ONE OF THE
SPINY CACTUSES.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

652

6 .—TOP PART OF THE SAME, SHOWING THE ROWS OF
FIXED BAYONETS.

coat of defensive spines, and the difficulty
of attacking so bristling a treasure-house.
Like a strong man armed, the cactus protects
its vital water-supply with a serried row of
weapons : it might almost be compared to a
fort with an army mounting guard over its
magazine, and fixed bayonets pointed in
every direction. Observe how impossible it
would prove to break the line anywhere :
he would be a bold strategist who would
venture to assault that perfectly defended
position with its innumerable caltrops. The
charge of the Lancers at Omdurman would
be a mere trifle to it.

Nevertheless, astute enemies do sometimes
manage t-o get the better even of these ex¬
perienced vegetable tacticians. The horses
that roam half-wild over the arid plains.of
upland Mexico will often combine to kick
down the tall pillar-like cactuses which grow
upright in those regions, knocking them
fiercely with their hoofs, and then eating the
soft and juicy pith, with its ample store of
contained water. They will also trample
open the globular forms which abound in
the same district, and feed greedily upon the
succulent interior. But only extreme thirst
and hunger would drive them to tackle so
dangerous a plant, and we must remember
that horses are not native to Mexico or to
any part of America: they were first intro¬
duced (in modern times at least) by the
Spanish conquerors : therefore the cactuses

could not have been originally developed
with an eye to defence against such solid-
hoofed enemies. As a rule a cactus hedge
is practically impervious to animals : hardly
any living beast will venture to face it. Even
the wild horses themselves often receive
dangerous wounds while kicking cactuses,
which thus avenge themselves on the invad¬
ing army.

Various degrees of hedgehogginess exist,
however, among the cactus group : there are
more developed and less developed forms,
according to the nature of the soil and the
amount of rainfall or the character of the
enemies to be expected locally. Some kinds,
such as the leaf-like Phyllanthus, often grown
in conservatories, are quite unarmed. Others,
such as the well-known prickly pear—an
American cactus now largely naturalized on
the Riviera, in Italy, in Algeria, and in
Syria—have comparatively few spines, though
they are well beset with little groups of short
sharp hairs, which break off at a touch and
cause an immense amount of trouble in the
hands when one rubs them. The fruit of the
prickly pear is intended to be eaten : it relies
upon animals for the dispersion of the seeds :
it has therefore relatively few spines, but it
must nevertheless be handled with caution.
Other forms of cactus are progressively
shorter, stouter, and more spiny, until at last,
in the most exposed spots, we arrive at that
most perfect of vegetable hedgehogs, the
globular melon cactus, many species of which
are commonly cultivated in pots in England,
more for the oddity of their form than for
the sake of the flowers. This quaint little
creature is as round as the rolled-up hedge¬
hog or the inflated globe-fish; and it is
protected by a perfect array of thick and
prickly spines. No. 7 shows one of these

7. — A STILL PRICKLIER CACTUS, ALL SPINES AND
DEFENCES.

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

653

extremely dense forms, where the need for
defence seems to have swallowed up the
whole plant—like a military despotism, it
has no time to think of anything but warlike
preparations. Such types grow always in
their native condition on very dry and open
spots, where every living plant is
eagerly devoured by the starving
animals,
unless it
covers itself
in this fash¬
ion with a
regular ar¬
senal of daggers
and javelins.

It may have
surprised you
to be told that
the spines of
cactuses are in
reality the last
relics of the true leaves: I will return to
that point a little later, and show by what
gradual stages this curious transformation has
been slowly effected. But for the present I
want rather to insist upon the point that
desert conditions almost necessarily run to
the production of excessive prickliness in all
sorts and conditions of plants and animals.
Where water is so scarce, food is scarce too :
and where food is scarce
hunger drives the few animals
which can exist in the dry
region to attack every living
thing they come across, be it
animal or vegetable. Hence,
the smaller animals of deserts
have need of protection just
as much as the plants.

Western and Southern Aus¬
tralia, as everybody knows,
have a very dry climate, and
they are provided accord¬
ingly with a most prickly and
spiny fauna and flora. Their
bush is sparse and extremely
thorny. No. 8 shows you a
very characteristic specimen
of the animal forms which
arise under such conditions.

It is a lizard which frequents
the driest and sandiest soils
of that desert tract, and it
is specially adapted for hold¬
ing its own against the local
lizard-eaters of the neighbour¬
hood it inhabits. Science
knows it by the scriptural title

of Moloch—and, indeed, it is ugly enough
and repulsive enough to be called any bad
names; but the Western Australians, less
polite in their speech than the Royal Society,
describe it familiarly as the “thorny devil.”
It is one mass of spines, and its head and brain

in particular are
specially pro¬
tected by a
couple of
prickly horns,
bent almost
like fish-hooks.
The Moloch, in
spite of its
name, is a
harmless crea¬
ture : it does
not attack: it
uses its armour
only, like the
common thistle,
for defence, not defiance. But, like most
prickly beasts, it knows it is practically safe
from aggression, for it is as slow as the hedge¬
hog in its movements, and basks openly on
the sandhills, aware that few foes will venture
to attack it.

A glance at No. 9, however, may bring
into still stronger relief the point which I am
labouring to show—the close analogy which
always exists between plant
and animal life under similar
conditions. Here we have a
bush which exactly represents
the thorny Moloch in the
vegetable world. The desert
regions of South America,
indeed, are full of prickly or
armour-plated animals : and
in the same desert regions
we get a whole group of in¬
tensely spinous and armour-
plated plants and shrubs, of
which No. 9 is a capital
example. This curious bush,
known as Colletia, is now
fairly common in hot-houses
in England, and is grown
outdoors on the arid hills of
the Riviera, where so many
desert shrubs from Mexico,
Arabia, Australia, and Peru
find a congenial home. It
is really the prickliest thing
I know, for its branches are
very stiff and its points very
sharp, and I have never
tried to handle one without

8 .—A PRICKLY LIZARD, THE MOLOCH OR “ THORNY DEVIL.”

9. —A PLANT OF THE SAME TYPE—
THE COLLETIA.

THE STEAJVE MAGAZINE.

654

wounding myself severely. The same con¬
ditions which make prickly animals make
prickly plants : and Colletia is prickliness
pushed to its utmost possible limit. It is
true, the sharp ends are not so
numerous as in many other
instances, but they are as hard
as steel, and as penetrating as a
surgical instrument. Nobody
tries twice to fight a Colletia.

Our common Eng¬
lish gorse,. represented
in No. 10, will help to
show how foliage-
leaves can be de¬
veloped into mere
defensive spines, as we
saw with the cactuses.

I have already ex¬
plained in this Maga¬
zine that the young
gorse seedling has
trefoil leaves like a clover, and
have pointed out how, as it
grows older, the successive
blades become sharper and
sharper, until at last they assume
the shape of mere stiff prickles,
scarcely to be distinguished
from the pointed branches on
whose sides they sprout. The
illustration exhibits very well the intensely
protective nature of the spines, which are
so arranged as to defend the flowers and
buds from the attacks of enemies. Our
common heather also tells one something
the same tale : its leaves are spiny, and would
readily enough degenerate into
prickles if need were : the cactuses
have only carried the same
tendency a degree farther, and
reduced the flat part of their leaves
till nothing is left of them except
the prickly termination. Imagine
a holly leaf or a thistle leaf with
the fleshy portion suppressed, and
you have an epitome of the pro¬
bable history of the cactus-spine in
the course of its development from
expanded foliage to defensive
prickle.

Indeed, in certain types, every
stage occurs between the plants
and animals which are quite un¬
defended, through the plants and
animals which are defended in
part only or on the most vulnerable
points, down to the plants and
animals which seem reduced ex¬

ternally, like the sea-urchin and the melon
cactus, to a mere rugged mass of defensive
javelins. Thus, among lizards, the iguanas
have a sharp row of spines down the back
only, the back being the part
most exposed to attack : while
others, like the horned lizards
of Mexico and the southern
United States, inhabiting the
same dry region as the cactuses,
are almost as closely
covered with protec¬
tive spines as the
Australian Moloch. In
the Arabian desert,
once more, we get the
thorny - tailed lizards,
whose hinder portion
is ringed round with
prickles; and in other
dry districts we find
other protected kinds,
progressively varying in the stage
of their armour from the simplest
to the most complex in every
possible gradation. So among
fish, No. 11 represents a fre¬
quent type, answering to the
iguana type among lizards, where
a few strong spines on the crest
of the back seem sufficient to
deter most would-be assailants. Our own
stickle-backs, as I have pointed out before,
are smaller examples of the same principle.
But other kinds of fish have more and more
scattered spines over the whole body, till at
last we arrive at highly protected species like

SPINES DEFENDING THE BUDS
AND FLOWERS.

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

655

the inflated globe-fish, which are veritable
hedgehogs both in shape and in prickliness.
You may observe that the best-armed kinds
are almost always globular in form, at least
in their defensive attitude, and are equally
covered with prickles all over,
because a sphere is, of course—
as a soldier would say—the hardest
“ formation ” to attack, while the
equal distribution of the spines
leaves no loop-hole for approach
to the most cunning assailant.

An exactly similar gradation
from the. unarmed through the
partially armed to the
highly defended can
easily be traced in many
groups of plants. Take
for instance the thistles.

Here, there are one or
two species which,
though they look much
like other thistles both
in foliage and flower,
have really no actual prickles
at all; the ends and angles of
the leaves, while shaped as in
the armed sorts, are quite soft
and yielding. Then there are
more advanced types which have
hard prickly points to every lobe of the leaf,
but still can be grasped by the smooth and
unarmed stem ; these kinds live mostly in
rather exposed spots, but not in those where
competition is fiercest and grazing animals
most numerous. Last of all, we get species
like the one represented in No. 12, which
have the leaves prolonged down the stem by
means of prickly wings, so that every portion
of the plant is absolutely protected. Such
sorts are developed on
open commons and in
boggy clay soils where
pasture is abundant. In
the nettle tribe, the same
tactics are carried still
further, for there each
hair or prickle has a
poison-bag at its base—
a sort of snake’s fang in
miniature—and positively
stings the invader like
a bee or a mosquito.

This is an extreme instance of that likeness
of plan which everywhere pervades plant and
animal life. If we knew stings only in
hornets and wasps, we should laugh at the
notion that a weed could resent and resist
intrusion by injecting poison into its assail¬

ant : yet nettles are such common and
familiar objects in a country walk, and have
so often forced themselves upon our un¬
willing attention, that we have almost
forgotten how to be astonished at the marvel
of their behaviour.

The sea is, if pos¬
sible, even fuller of
prickly creatures than
the land. Against our
hawthorn bushes, our
brambles, our porcu¬
pines, and our “thorny
devils,” it sets an im¬
mense array of spine¬
bearing animals of every
conceivable type and
pattern. They occur in
every group. The com¬
mon lobster belongs merely to
the armour-plated section, like
the tortoises and armadillos :
but there is a well - known
prickly lobster which also comes
frequently into the London
market, and which has its back
all studded with defensive spines
of the most deadly character.
Similarly, most crabs have
smooth shells; but there are
certain prickly devil-crabs (No. 13) which
consist of one serried mass of dense spikes,
and which probably never get attacked at all
by. any other animal. The edible prawn is
not prickly all over like these crabs, but he
has a saw - like beak, which must suffice
to ward off most assaults of his adversaries.

A great many mollusks have shells with

spines and other sharp projections, and these
obviously serve to defend them from their
enemies. But it is among
the smaller and lower sea-
beasties that one finds
the greatest number of
prickly forms. The star¬
fish are frequently spiny
on their exposed upper
surface, and the very
name “ sea - urchin ” is
equivalent to sea-hedge¬
hog, urchin being an old-
English corruption of the
French her is son. Most
of the sea-urchins are intensely prickly:

the curious one depicted in No. 14, where it
is partly deprived of its spines, to show the
shell, is not so much prickly as difficult to
tackle for want of a point of approach : it
resembles rather a blunt arrangement of

12.—A SPINY THISTLE, WITH
PRICKLES RUNNING DOWN
THE STEM.

13.—THE PRICKLY CRAB.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

656

chevMix de frise than a circle of fixed bayonets.
Roughly speaking, one may say that an im¬
mense majority of the lower creatures in the
sea are more or less protected in one way or
another. Either, like the urchins, they have

14.—A SEA-URCHIN, WITH SOME OF THE SPINES
REMOVED TO SHOW THE SHELL.

spines and spikes : or, if they are soft, like
the jelly-fish, then they frequently sting : or,
if they do not possess either prickles or a
stinging fluid, then they are nasty to the
taste, and advertise themselves as such by
means of brilliant colours, as is the case with
a great many sea-slugs. A walk through the
galleries of the Natural History Museum at
South Kensington will show you at once how
extremely frequent are these prickly animals,
especially in the sea. And here I will just
add parenthetically that it is very little use
strolling listlessly through
such collections, as most
people do, with a casual
glance right and left at the
various cases: if you want
a visit to a museum to do
you any good, you must
select some such line of
study for- an afternoon as
this, and go through the
corridors looking out care¬
fully for the different plants
and animals which exem¬
plify (say) this defensive
prickly habit in every direc¬
tion.

Even insects are often
prickly, though we are a
little apt to overlook the
real prickliness of these
smaller types, because it
often does not look to our
clumsy big eyes much more
than mere hairiness, or
even downiness. What is

to us men a soft fur on the stem of-a
plant will often prove to an ant an impass¬
able jungle like a tropical thicket. and what
looks to our sight a woolly caterpillar, may
seem to a bird a harsh spine - covered
creature. Sometimes, however, the spines
on insects are spines even to our human
eyes : as is the case with the well-defended
prickly beetle illustrated in No. 15, where
the creature is seen appropriately walking
about on the leaf of a favourite thistle,
just as the hedgehogs skulk among gorse
or blackthorn, and as the prickly lizards
dwell habitually in regions .of prickly
shrubs, prickly weeds, and prickly bushes.
Many other beetles have spiny horns or
projections which serve them in good stead
as protective devices : a well-known case is
that of our large and handsome English
stag-beetle. Most of these armed creatures
are as little likely to be molested by impor¬
tunate enemies in their own small world
as the hedgehog, the porcupine, and the
sword-fish are likely to be molested in larger
circles. Of course it is impossible here to
do more than quote a few examples out of
the thousands that exist : but there are wide
regions of the world where almost every
plant and a vast number of the animals are
thus covered with sharp thorns, or spines, or
bristles. This is especially true of the
Mediterranean region, as everyone knows who
has wandered on the dry hills behind Nice
and Cannes, or botanized the prickly bushes
in the North African mountains, or
hunted insects among the dry and
thorny acacia scrub of Syria and Egypt.

No. 16 introduces us to one of the
many caterpillars which are protected by
such spines or bristles as seem to us
men scarcely more than
hairs. It is the well-known
larva of the tortoiseshell
butterfly. At first sight,
you would hardly suppose
that these hairs could be
classed among the spikes
and prickles we have
hitherto been considering.
But just imagine yourself
a bird, and try to think of
yourself as swallowing one
of these hairy insects. It
must be pretty much the
same thing as if you or I
were to try swallowing a
clothes-brush. As a matter
of fact, indeed, protected
caterpillars like these are

ZUOCJ.'

.—A PRICKLY BEETLE.

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

657

seldom or never eaten by any of the
small birds which frequent our hedge-rows;
though they have other enemies which
manage to tackle them somehow. The
cuckoo, for example, is an insatiable cater¬
pillar-eater, and, strange to say, he delights,
most of all, in the hairy forms. He seems
to have a throat specially constructed for
bolting them, while the hair or bristles form
at last a perfect coat
of felt in the bird’s
stomach. That is
characteristic of the
check and counter¬

check of nature: every
move on one side is
met and defeated by
an opposite move on
the other. Neverthe¬
less, it is quite clear
that most hairy cater¬
pillars are amply pro¬
tected from the
majority of their
enemies, for they show
themselves openly, like
hedgehogs and porcu¬
pines, and do not

attempt concealment
like the edible sorts;
though when attacked,
they often roll them a

selves up into a ball,
after the fashion of so many other animals in
this protected group, and turn a uniform set
of stiff bristles towards the attacking party.

It cannot be by accident, I think, that

the globular form is assumed in such
different cases both by thorny plants and by
prickly animals. The various creatures must
have learnt by ancestral experience that this
spherical arrangement of the spines or hairs is
the best mode for defence : and while some
of them, like the melon cactus and the sea-
urchin, assume it permanently, others, like the
hedgehog, the globe-fish, and the woolly-

bear caterpillar, assume it only when special
danger threatens. It is curious to note that
something similar happens with armadillos

and woodlice, as well as with many marine
animals of the armour-plated kind. Analo¬
gies like this run all through nature: they
recur again and again in the most unlike
classes. What succeeds in one place will
succeed in another, where conditions are
similar : whatever device is hit upon by one
plant or animal is almost certain to be in¬
dependently hit upon in like circumstances
by some other else¬
where. We are all of
us a great deal less
original than we sup¬
pose : and as for us
men, it almost in¬
variably happens that
our latest invention
has been anticipated
ages ago by a grub
or a sea - anemone.
When we prepare to
receive cavalry on a
thick wall of bayonets
at different angles,
what are we doing
after all save imitat¬
ing a device long since
inaugurated by the
hedgehog, the cactus,
and the hairy cater¬
pillars ? Our hollow
square is but an echo
of the sea - urchin’s
shell; our armoured ships, with their des¬
tructive rams, are strikingly like the lobster
with his pointed forehead. If you look
abroad in nature for such hints and antici¬
pations of human progress, you will find
them on all sides—especially as regards the
arts and stratagems of war. It is only in the
highest industries of peace and the fine arts
of beauty that we have really got so very
much ahead of our dumb relations. For
desert warfare, in particular, was there ever a
finer strategist than the humble melon cactus?
Commissariat is always the great problem in
the desert; wells are the crux : he has solved
that problem and avoided that crux in a way
that would seem to deserve a peerage.

Vol. xvii. -83.

“ Plaster of Paris! ” he re¬
plied, with a nervous start;
“ how terrible ! ”

“Why, what’s the matter?” I
asked, with a laugh.

“ Ah ! ” he replied, “ I dare¬
say my exclamation seemed
strange to you. But plaster of
Paris has an awful meaning to
my ears, as you would agree if
you heard of an adventure from
the effects of which I. am only
just recovering.”

“ Have you any objection to
telling me ? ”

“ Not the slightest. Come and
sit down over yonder, and I’ll
explain myself; then you’ll see why
I hate the name of plaster of Paris.”

So we sat down and he began his
story, which 1 repeat in his own words as
far as possible.

By Victor L. Whitechurch.

E were strolling through the
Paris Salon. Tired of passing
through endless galleries and
gazing at the pictures, we
had descended into the great
central hall devoted to statuary,
where it is permissible to smoke, and had lit
our cigarettes. My companion was only a
passing acquaintance, a fellow-countryman I
had met at the table d’hote, and who, like
myself, was passing a few weeks in the
French metropolis. He was a slight, delicate-
looking young man of about five-and-twenty,
a well-read and charming companion. As
we entered the hall, with its long rows of
statues, I noticed that he turned a little pale,
but put it down to the heat of the day.
Presently we stopped to admire a gracefully-
modelled figure by one of the most eminent
exhibitors. . . . “ A very fine piece of sculp¬
ture,” said my friend.

“Scarcely that,” I replied. “It’s made
out of an appropriate material—plaster of
Paris.”

Jasper Keen and myself were chums
during the year we were together at Oxford,
and our friendship continued after he had
gone down through the two years I remained.
He was my senior—three or four years older
than myself; and, as is generally the case in
strong friendships, my opposite in many
respects. I was a reading man; Keen was
more noted for the strength of his arm on
the river, and as a desperate “ forward ” in
the footer field. My temper was always one
of the mildest; Keen would give vent to
paroxysms of anger, and weeks of smothered,
revengeful passion. He was a tall, magni¬
ficently-built fellow, and the men often called
us the “long and short of it,” so great was
the contrast between us.

I do not say that there was nothing intel¬
lectual about Jasper Keen. On the con¬
trary, he was a genius ; only, like most of
his species, he worked by fits and starts.
When he did work, however, it was to some
purpose, as the examiners knew. And with
all his great strength and passion for sport
he had a very marked artistic temperament,

IN A TIGHT FIX .

6 59

which showed itself in his love of sculpture
and modelling. His rooms were a curiosity.
Very few books—he always sold them the
instant he had finished reading them—prize
oars and “ pots ” in profusion, and a collec¬
tion of clay busts, modelled by himself.
There was a row of college Uons on his
mantelshelf, clever caricatures, his intimate
friends—and his enemies. If he liked a
man, he made an excellent little bust of him ;
on the contrary, one who # incurred his hatred
was modelled in some eccentric or repulsive
manner, but still with strict regard to a
correct likeness so that it was impossible to
mistake the man.

When Jasper Keen left the ’Varsity he set
up a studio in London. He was a man of
fairly large private means, and did not care
about earning money. He devoted himself
still to sport during the intervals when he
was not exercising his hobby, and lived a
generally easy and comfortable life.

In due time I also went to live in town,
and plunged into the vortex of literary work,
to which I had determined to devote my
life. I constantly saw Keen, and our friend¬
ship was as great as ever, until-

Yes, “ until ” — you guess what I
mean. There was a woman in it, as
there always is, and she stepped in
between us. Jasper Keen loved her
madly, jealously. Over and over again
he was repulsed, for Ivey Stirling
never cared for him. He frightened
her with the intensity of his devotion.

One day he said to her

“ The truth is, you care for another
man.”

“ And what if I do ? ” said Ivey, boldly.

“ What if you do ! Why, this. If I
find the man, even if he were my
greatest friend, I’d kill him rather
than he should win you ! ”

He was Keen’s greatest friend.

The man who was accepted by
Ivey Stirling was myself, and, in
spite of all, I trust she will be
my wife before the year is out.

I may well say, “In spite of
all.” When Keen heard of it,
he was furious. I told him
myself. I thought it best that
he should hear the news first
from the lips of his friend, and
I hoped from the bottom of my
heart that our friendship would
not be destroyed. So I went
round to his studio and broke
the news to him.

He stood for some moments with his
whole frame quivering, his nostrils dilated,
and his eyes starting forward, like some wild
beast held in restraint by a chain. Then he
turned to a pedestal on which stood a bust
of myself, fashioned by him in the old
Oxford days, and dashed it to the ground.
The fragments of clay went rattling over the
studio.

“ Leonard Fendron,” he yelled, “as I have
broken your bust, so will I break you. You
false, traitorous hound, you think you have
stolen from me the one object I have to live
for. But not yet-—do you hear? I could
crush you as you stand—I could break every
bone in your body with this hand of mine.
But that would be too poor a revenge. I
will wait- I will make you suffer such agony
as you have given me. Go, I say, go, and
may the worst of all curses light upon
you—the curse of a friend you have
wronged.”

It was useless to explain, so I went. Ivey
was much disturbed when 1 told her about
this interview; but to tell the truth, I thought
little of it myself. I had seen Keen in a
paroxysm of rage before, and I hoped that

“ f 11 £ DASHED IT TO THE GROUND,”

66 o

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

in time he would see things sensibly for the
sake of our old friendship.

For a year I never saw the man. His
studio was shut up, and report said that he
had gone abroad. Then I suddenly met
him face to face in Fleet Street. I was
going to pass him by at first, but he stopped
me and shook hands.

“ How d’ye do, Fendron?” he said. “Last
time I saw you I was in a bit of a temper.
But that’s all over now, and I can afford to
let the past be buried in the past—if you can
too.”

“ Certainly,” I replied ; “ I’m only too
delighted to hear our friendship still exists.”

“That’s right,” he said. “And now come
and have some lunch with me. There’s a
restaurant handy where we can talk.”

So I went with him. He was most friendly
and chatty. He told me he had been abroad,
but that the last-five months he had spent in
England.

“ I’ve been living like a hermit,” he said.
“ The fact is, I’m engaged on a master-piece
of work. It will beat anything I’ve ever done.
Oh, it’s a grand thing, I can tell you. I fitted
up a studio in the country some months ago,
and I’ve hardly stirred out of it since—simply
worked and seen no one. But I’ve had an
end in view, as you shall see for yourself.
Now, I want you to pay me a visit, and you
shall be the first to see my masterpiece. Will
you come?”

“ Certainly,” I said ; “what day will suit
you ? ”

“ Let me see—it’s the 9th to-day. I
want a clear fortnight on the work before I
finish. Can you come on Friday, the 24th,
and stay till Monday? I can easily put
you up.”

“ With pleasure. That will suit me
capitally. Only, you haven’t told me where
to come to yet.”

“ I hardly think you’d find it if I did,” he
answered, thoughtfully; “ it’s not very far
from town, but it’s a bit awkward to get at
for a stranger. So suppose you meet me at
Euston at half-past eight on that Friday
evening, and I’ll take you down. It’s rather
late, but you shall have a good supper as soon
as you get there, I promise you.”

To this arrangement I accordingly agreed,
and on the 24th I met Keen at Euston.
Telling me that he had purchased my ticket,
he took me to a local train. We got out at
Sudbury, the station near Wembley Park.

“ There’s some little distance to walk,” he
said, “so we’d better step it out briskly.”

It must have been a tramp of over two

miles that finally brought us to a large house,
standing quite alone a little way off the road,
somewhere in the direction of Edgware.
Although not many miles from London, the
country about here is very lonely, and there
was not a house near. It was about ten
o’clock and quite dark when Keen opened the
door with a latch-key.

“Welcome!” he cried. “You must be
tired and hungry. We’ll have supper at once,
it’s all ready.”

And without further ado he led the way into
a good-sized room, lit by a lamp, and revealed
a table spread with cold viands.

There was a change in his tone of voice
that made me feel rather uneasy as he went
on :—

“We’re all to ourselves, Fendron. I’ve
let the servants out for the evening. But
everything’s ready for us, so sit down and
begin. We must be our own butlers.”

It was an excitable meal. The whole of
the time Keen talked and laughed and joked.
He ran on about old times and our college
days; he laughed long and boisterously—
once I expostulated with him for his noise.

“ What does it matter ? ” he shouted.
“ There’s not a soul near. That’s the beauty
of the country. You might yell yourself
hoarse in this shanty of mine, and no one
would hear you.”

He even touched on my engagement.
Leaning across the table, he insisted upon
grasping my hand.

“ I’ve never congratulated you yet, old
chap, you know. Last time we were on this
subject I was in a huff. But it’s all right
now. May you be happy—ha ! ha ! ha !—
as happy as you deserve ! ”

Supper over, he took up the lamp.

“Come,” he said, “we’ll adjourn to the
studio and smoke there. I’ve got to show
you my great work. It will surprise you.
Come along.”

He led the way to the very top of the
house, and we entered a large room which
he had turned into a studio. Lumps of clay,
pieces of stone, tools, and half-finished works
were lying about in artistic confusion. On a
small table was a box of cigars, several
decanters of wine and spirits, siphons and
tumblers. In one corner of the room was a
large bath, filled with a white powder, while
a small shovel and a couple of pails of water
stood by it. In the centre of the room was
a very large, hollow wooden pedestal, shaped
like a cylinder, and quite as high as my
shoulders, such as is used sometimes for
standing heavy busts upon. The top, how-

IN A TIGHT FIX.

661

ever, had been removed from this cylinder,
and there was nothing on it. The room was
evidently only lighted by a skylight, and a
thick curtain hung over the door, and
stretched across what was apparently a
recess at the farther end of the apartment
was another curtain, hanging in black
folds.

Keen gave me a cigar and sat me down in
a chair.

“ Well, what do you think of my work¬
shop ? ” he asked.

“ I’ve hardly had time to look round, yet,”
I replied. “ What’s that huge pedestal for ? ”

“ You’ll see later on,” he said.

Again that ominous change in
his voice.

“ And what’s in that bath ? ”

“ Oh ! plaster of Paris,” he
answered, with a laugh ; “ but
now, watch ! I’m going to draw
the curtain ! ”

First lighting a couple more
lamps, he drew the curtain aside
with a sudden jerk. The result
was electrical.

There, standing on
a small raised plat¬
form, life-size
and most ex¬
quisitely mod¬
elled, was a
statue of Ivey
Stirling, my
betrothed. I
sprang to my
feet and utter¬
ed an excla-
m a tio n of
surprise.

“Yes,”shout-
e d Keen,

“ there stands
the image of
the woman you love—
and the woman I loved
once. She whose image was
so graven upon my heart
that I was able to mould this
statue as you see it; to
mould it for you, Leonard
Fendron, who have won the prize,
not tell you it was a master-piece ? ”

“ You did. And so it is,” I replied, with
an indescribable feeling of terror creeping
over me. My companion rushed to the
table and filled two glasses. One of them
he thrust into my hand.

“ A health ! ” he cried. “ Drain it to

the dregs. A health to the fair Ivey, your
betrothed ! Drink it, Fendron ! ”

“ A health to the fair Ivey — my future
wife,” I said, mechanically, drinking the
liquor and gazing at the statue.

“ Your future wife ! ” echoed Keen, with a
terrible voice. “ Never ! ” I turned and
gazed at him. He was foaming with mad¬
ness and rage. At the same moment my
head grew dizzy, and the room seemed twirling
round. I made a wild rush for the door,
but fell in a dead faint before I could reach it.

When I came to my senses again there

was an awful
fee1in g of
cramp all
over me. My
whole body
with my legs
and arms
seemed to be
held in a vice
that was pres¬
sing upon me
at every
point. I open¬
ed my eyes.
The first
thing that
met my gaze
was the statue
ofIvey placed
opposite me.
I was in an
upright posi¬
tion, but I
could not
move. I
looked
downwards,
but not even
then did I
realize the
horrible
truth. I was
up to my
shoulders in
the hollow
pedestal.

“ Halloa !

you’ve come to, have you ? ” said a mocking
voice, and Jasper Keen stood in front of
me, the grin of a lunatic on his face.

“For God’s sake, what have you done?” I
asked.

“ I’ll very soon tell you,” he replied, with a
sneer ; “ I’ve made a statue of you. Listen.
You are up to your shoulders in plaster of

I SPRANG TO MY FEET AND UTTERED AN EXCLAMATION OF
SURPRISE.”

Did I

662

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Paris. Whilst you were insensible from the
effects of that drugged wine you drank I
placed you in the pedestal, mixed that bath¬
ful of plaster and water, and poured it in
with you. It took me some time to do, and
it’s now four o’clock in the morning. By this
time it’s thoroughly set, and you cannot move
hand or foot.”

The terrible situation was dawning upon my
mind. My tormentor went on

“ Did you think, Leonard Fendron, that I
had forgotten? Did you expect to get a
forgiveness from Jasper Keen ? You should
have known me
better, and not
have walked so
foolishly into the
snare that I set for
you. I told you I
would have re¬
venge. I have
waited and
schemed a long
time, but now the
hour of my ven¬
geance has come.

Here, before the
image of the
woman you love,
you shall die,

Leonard Fendron
— die a slow
and an awful
death. I shall
leave you here,
fixed, immov- ,
able — a living
statue. Don’t
think to escape,
for I have
planned it well.

My servants
were dismissed
two days ago ;

I told them I
was going to
leave the house

for some months. You can shriek and howl
as much as you please, but no one will hear
you. I’ve tested that carefully. In short,
unless an angel from Heaven comes to set
you free, here you’ll stay till you starve to
death in cramp and agony.”

“ Have mercy-” I began, but he

stopped me.

“ Mercy ? As soon expect to find it at
Satan’s hands ! Here, I’ll put this table with
the liquor on it close to you. It will be
more tantalizing. And now I must be .off.

YOU SHALL DIE A SLOW AND AWFUL DEATH

I’ve planned my escape well. Good-bye,
Leonard Fendron. I wish you joy with your
bride of clay ! ”

And the madman, for so he was, I am
assured, at that moment struck me a heavy
blow in the face, turned on his heel, slammed
the door, and I heard his footsteps disappear
down the stairs. I was alone and helpless.

I cannot describe the torture as the long
hours went by and the light of the lamps
slowly faded as the day began to dawn. The
cramp in my body and limbs was awful, my
throat was parched, and my brain seemed on
fire. I yelled and screamed
at the top of my voice, listen¬
ing in anguish for an answer¬
ing call, but answers came
there none. The
villain had pre¬
pared his plot
too well ! In
my madness I
tried to lurch
forward and
hurl myself to
the floor. In
vain ! The
pedestal was
fixed! And
there, a few feet
in front of me,
stood the statue
of Ivey, so life¬
like and beauti-
f u 1 that it
seemed at times
to my frenzied
brain that she
was smiling and
speaking to me.

Then came a
time when all
was dark. I
had fainted.
Too soon I re¬
turned to the
fearful reality,
and redoubled my screams. It was fruitless.
I was in a mental and bodily agony that was
too awful for words. How the hours passed
I knew not. It seemed years that I had
been fixed there. I seemed never to have
lived at all, except in a world of terror.

My God ! I cannot describe the an¬
guish. . . .

Suddenly there came a sound. . . Yes. . . .
I was not mistaken. ... A heavy bang on
the roof over-head. I listened with straining
ears—ah—a footstep !

IN A TIGHT FIX.

663

“ For God’s sake, help—help ! ” I cried.

Then there came a tap at the skylight
over-head, and a voice spoke :—

“ Excuse me, but may I come in ? ”

“ Come in ! ” I shrieked; “ in Heaven’s
name yes, come in ! ”

“You seem in a mighty hurry,” replied
the voice. “ Suppose you open the sky¬
light for me.”

“ I can’t,” I answered; “ smash it—do
what you like—only be quick.”

Crash ! the glass came spattering down on
the floor, a foot came through the window,
then another, and in
a few seconds the
man himself stood
before me.

“ Well, I’m blowed ! ”
he exclaimed ; “ what
on earth does this
mean ? ”

“ For God’s sake
be quick and set me
free,” I begged. “It’s
killing me. Give me
something to drink
first.”

I eagerly drained
the tumbler of soda-
water he held to my
lips. Then he set to
work. He was a busi¬
nesslike man, and
there were some
stone-chisels and
hammers about. In
a very few minutes he
had split the pedestal
down, and was ham¬
mering and chipping
away at the plaster,
which, of course,
by this time was
quite hard, and
came off in flakes
and lumps. It
seemed ages to me,
but he afterwards
told me it took
him a very short time to get me free,
though large lumps of plaster still stuck to
my clothes. I was horribly cramped, and
could not stir when it was over. He un¬
dressed me and gave me a tremendous
rubbing, until at length the circulation
became partially restored and the agony
began to subside, and 1 was able to talk.

“ Well,” he exclaimed, “ this is the rum-
miest thing I’ve ever come across. Good¬

ness only knows what would have happened
to you if my parachute hadn’t gone wrong.”

“ Your parachute ? ”

“Yes—that’s how I came here. I’m a
professional aeronaut, and I’ve been making
a balloon ascent and a parachute descent at
Wembley Park every Saturday afternoon for
a couple of months past.”

“And you landed on the roof?” I ex¬
claimed.

“ Exactly. Something went wrong, and I
found myself coming down more quickly
than I intended. The wind’s a bit high and
blew me some dis¬
tance, and I thought
I was going smash
against this house,
but, as luck had it,

I just managed to
tumble on the roof,
which, luckily, is flat,
and here I am.
Lucky for you, wasn’t
it?”

Keen’s words had
come very nearly true.
He had said that
only an angel from
Heaven could rescue
me !

Well, little remains
to be told. I was
very ill for weeks ; in
fact, I am only just
getting over it now.
The only wonder is
that I escaped as I
did, but as Keen had
put me in the pedestal
with my clothes on,
and had not pressed
down the plaster,
the pressure was
slighter than it
might have been,
though that, was
bad enough.

As for Keen
himself, he got
clean away. You see, he had over twelve
hours’ start, for it was not until late on
Saturday afternoon that the aeronaut found
me. I don’t know, and I don’t much care,
what has become of him. I only mean to
take good care that he doesn’t have another
chance of stopping our marriage.

And now, perhaps, you will understand
why I feel a little queer at the mention of
plaster of Paris.

“a foot came through the window.”

Switzerland from a Balloon.

By Charles Herbert.

ROSSING the Alps by
Balloon ” does not appeal
so strongly to the imagina¬
tion of the reader as trips to
the North Pole or Klondike,
and yet a great deal of
interest and romance attaches to such a
project.

During the late autumn of last year Captain
Edward Spelterini, who has made over 500
balloon ascents, determined to make an
attempt to cross the high Alps of Switzerland
in a balloon, a feat which no air-ship had
ever before then accomplished. He had many
reasons for wishing to undertake this voyage
in the upper regions over the most magnifi¬
cent scenery in Europe. - Himself keenly
interested in meteorological and physical
questions, he had succeeded in enlisting the
sympathy of the Weather Bureau of Switzer¬
land, and also of many Swiss scientific men
of high standing. It was his intention to
make a number of experiments and observa¬
tions on the physical conditions of the upper
atmosphere, and to take a large series of
photographs of the country over which he
would travel. The point of view from which
these photographs should be taken in order
to be of the greatest use for cartography,
geography, and geology, was carefully planned,

and attempts were to be made to employ the
science of photography in the study of the
formation of vapour and clouds in high
Alpine altitudes.

It was on October 3rd that Captain
Spelterini, after waiting some days, made his
ascent from Sion, in Canton Valais. The
“Vega” passed over Montreux and Yver-
don ; then, crossing the Jura, it went towards
Pontarlier at a height of 2,500 mbtres. It
eventually descended without mishap at
Pratoy, between Langres and Dijon, in the
Cote d’Or.

The photographs of mountain scenery
taken during this balloon trip over the Alps
are of extraordinary interest and beauty, and
are the only ones of the kind in existence,
for no one else has ever photographed the
mountains of Switzerland from a balloon
before. They give us aspects of the rugged
Alps such as no photographer or painter
could obtain in the ordinary way. The cloud
and snow effects are of great beauty, and the
mountains, which we thought we knew so
well, reveal themselves in a wonderfully novel
and beautiful manner.

Captain Spelterini’s photographs open up,
in fine, a new field for the lover of Nature,
and many disciples of this art will probably
arise. There is a great deal of work to be

I.—THE ASCENT AT VEVF.Y.

SWITZERLAND IROM A BALLOON.

665

done in the way of balloon photography,
but the process is not by any means so easy
as it looks, and one must be prepared for
repeated failures.

Captain Spelterini has written an account
of the voyage of the “ Vega ” over the Alps,

and this, together with the photographs taken
on the occasion, will appear in an early
number of The Strand Magazine.

The trip has everywhere aroused the
greatest interest, and the German Emperor,
doubtless with an eye to the employment of

Vol. xvii.—84

3. — CLARENS, ON LAKE GENEVA.

666

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

4.— -DESCENT IN THE VALLEY OF THE RHONE.

balloon photography in warfare, commanded
Captain Spelterini to take his balloon and
photographic apparatus to Wiesbaden, and to
make an ascent before him there.

The photographs Nos. 1, 2, 3, and 4 were
taken by Captain Spelterini during a special
ascent which he made from Vevey, on the
Lake of Geneva.

In No. 1 the balloon is leaving Vevey on
a lovely summer morning, and a large con¬
course of spectators have assembled in the
Place du Marche
to witness its de- r
parture, for Captain
Spelterini has a
great name as an
aeronaut, and has
made more trips
in Switzerland than
anyone else*. One
of the occupants of
the car is waving
adieu, and his
position looks ex¬
tremely precarious.

In the foreground
is a photographer
with his camera set
up on its legs wait¬
ing for a favour¬
able moment to
“ press the button.”

No. 2 is a photo¬
graph taken from
the balloon, which
has now risen to
some little height

above Vevey.
We are looking
down on the
Place du Marche,
where the spec¬
tators look like
little ants and
the buildings
like children’s
toys. How
bright the sun
must have been
is evident from
the shadow cast
by each indi¬
vidual and every
object. The
boats on the lake
remind one of
nothing so much
as the little water
skaters which
skim to and fro over the surface of a pond.

No. 3 was taken while the balloon was
over Clarens, on the Lake of Geneva, the
beautiful village three and a half miles from
Vevey, immortalized by Rousseau. The
villas and chateaux standing in their own
grounds present a curious appearance.

The last picture (No. 4) taken during the
Vevey ascent shows the balloon at the finish
of the journey in the Valley of the Rhone.
Captain Spelterini may be seen standing on

5.—BALE.

SWITZERLAND LROM A BALLOON.

667

6.—BALE—THE JOHANNITER BRIDGE.

arches

very prettily; this photograph
in brilliant sunshine, and is a
example of balloon photography.

curious, for the photographer has managed
to get a picture showing the shadow of
the balloon on the Rhine. The view was

the right of the balloon. He wears a peaked
cap, and his features are illuminated by a
broad smile; so he had evidently effected a
safe and satisfactory landing.

Nos. 5, 6, 7, and 8 were all taken at
one time or another by Captain Spelterini
while ballooning
over Bale, that
great Swiss centre,
the “ Clapham
Junction” of Swit¬
zerland, so well
known to travel¬
lers on the Conti¬
nent. No. 5 is a
very pretty pic¬
ture, and gives a
bird’s-eye view of
the town and the
three bridges. In
the foreground is
the five - arched
‘ £ J oh an niter
Briicke,” com¬
pleted in 1882 ;
the centre one is
the wooden “ Alte
Briicke,” 165yds.
in length, 16yds.
in breadth, and
partly supported
by stone piers ; it
was originally

built in 1225* In 7.— bAi.E—SHADOW OF THE BALLOON ON THE RHINE.

the middle of the
bridge rises a
chapel of the six¬
teenth century, and
a column with a
barometer and
weathercock.
Above this old
bridge the river is
crossed by the
iron “Wettstein
Briicke,” com¬
pleted in 1879
three spans 200ft.
in width. In No.
6 we are looking
right down on to
the Johanneter
Bridge, and on the
people walking
over it, who look
like tiny insects.
The swirl of the
Rhine around the
comes out
was taken
very clever
No. 7 is

668

THE S TEA NT MAGAZINE .

8.—NEAR BALE—OVER THE MONUMENT OF ST. JACOB.

taken while over the outskirts of Bale. No.

8 was taken while the balloon was above
the monument of St. Jacob to the south¬
east of Bale. This monument, completed in
1872, commemorates the heroism and death

of 1,300 confede¬
rates who opposed
the Armagnac in¬
vaders under the
Dauphin (afterwards
Louis XI.) in 1444.

No. 9 was taken
while the balloon
was over Arlesheim,
a little hamlet near
Bale : the white
roads spreading out
in all directions
from the village are
plainly visible.

No. 10 is Winter¬
thur, on the Eulach,
a wealthy and in¬
dustrial town and
an important rail¬
way junction.
From this photo¬
graph we get an
idea of the breadth
of the principal
streets. Winterthur lies to the north-east of
Zurich. No. 11 was taken by Captain
Spelterini while above St. Gall, one of the
highest lying of the larger towns of Europe :
it is situated a few miles south of Lake

9.—ARLESHEIM.

SWITZERLAND FROM A BALLOON

669

10.—WINTERTHUR.

Constance. St. Gall is one of the chief
industrial towns of Switzerland, embroidered
cotton goods being its staple product. The
broad roads in this photograph look almost

like rivers, and
we might ima¬
gine we were
looking down on
a Venice. No.
i2 shows the
ancient and
thriving town of
Bienne, on the
Lake of Bienne,
some thirty miles
south of Bale.
The view from
Bienne is en¬
hanced in clear
weather by the
magnificent
chain of the
Bernese Alps.
Nos. 13 and 14
represent Zurich,
the beautiful
Swiss’ town
which will be
well known to
most readers. In
No. 14 we get a view of the lake, whose
beauty and charm are scarcely equalled by
that of any other Swiss lake.

We have already alluded to the fact that

II.—ST. GALL.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

670

Captain Spelterini takes a keen interest in
scientific matters. During his balloon ascents
he frequently makes observations with the
meteorological and physical instruments
which he carries with him, and the results of
his investigations in the upper regions of the
atmosphere are greatly valued by the Swiss
Weather Bureau and the savants of Switzer¬
land and Germany.

“Air travels,” writes Captain Spelterini,
“ have excited at all times the greatest interest

among all classes of the population, and do
so even to-day, when a balloon trip is no
more considered a rare event. The landing
of a balloon, whether it takes place in the
neighbourhood of a large town or in the
open country, is always an interesting occur¬
rence. Young and old come rushing from
all sides, and are ready to lend a helping
hand in assisting the aeronaut to pack up his
balloon. Every day many people express
the wish to be able to travel through the

13.—ZURICH.

SWITZERLAND FROM A BALLOON.

671

14.—ZURICH—SHOWING THE LAKE.

air in a balloon and to obtain a bird’s-eye
view of the earth ; few, however, are able
to realize this wish. By photographs,
however, it is possible to give an idea to
anyone outside who cannot enjoy this sport
how the earth looks from a bird’s-eye view.
It is true that such photographs are com¬
paratively rare and difficult to obtain. The
attempt of a well-known Berlin artistic estab¬
lishment to obtain such photographs of large
towns, etc., from balloons for their periodical
failed from the beginning.

“The difficulties in taking such photographs
are very great; a great deal of practice is
required, and many failures will occur before
something good is produced. I may mention
that the reproduction of such photographs by
blocks is defective, and cannot be compared
with the picture observed on the negative
plate through the lens.

“The endeavour to obtain photographs from
balloons is as old as photography itself. It
is only recently, however, that pictures of any
value have been obtained ; it was especially
the invention of the dry plates and the im¬
provements in connection therewith which con¬
tributed in developing balloon photography.

“ In most cases it is only possible to take
instantaneous photographs, as even a captive
balloon is nearly always in motion. Although

the instantaneous shutter may act with the
greatest possible speed, it is important also
in instantaneous photography that the
apparatus should be as nearly as possible in
a state of repose at the moment that the
photograph is being taken, namely, during
the time of exposure. In consequence the
camera is either let into the bottom of the
car, or, if one wishes to economize space in
the car, fixed to the outside of the latter by
means of strong universal joints, which make
it possible to focus the camera in all direc¬
tions. The use of a hand camera is of great
advantage to an experienced aeronaut-photo¬
grapher, as it can be easily moved. The
steadier the observer holds the apparatus the
better of course the photographs will come out.
As regards the camera itself, a firm connection
of the board holding the lens with the back
part is best. Cameras with bellows in the
balloon are too easily damaged. As regards
shutters, the Anschutz shutters offer the
greatest advantages. With these not only
can the time of exposure.be best regulated,
but they have also this in their favour, that
the single portions of the sensitive film of the
plate are lighted successively, whereby the
shaking of the balloon cannot exercise such
a disturbing influence upon the clearness of
the photo.”

/3 a&//- Mo/l/k

,T was settling-day
on the Melbourne
Stock Exchange,
in the second
week in January,

I 1894, and at midday old
Joe Kinnoms walked with uneven,
rapid strides through his outer office
and banged-to the door of his pri¬
vate room as he entered. Next
moment his voice was heard, high and
rasping.

“Tims ! ” he called.

In response, his shorthand clerk, a cadav¬
erous, pale-cheeked youth, approached the
door timidly. He returned in a few minutes
looking even more bilious than usual.

“ The guv’nor’s got it ’ot ! My word ! ”
he ejaculated, as he propped himself against
the desk. “ I guess the slump in £ The Lone
Star ’ has 'it ’ini a faicer. He ain’t in to any¬
one, he sez.”

The clerks gaped at each other mournfully.
Old Joe Kinnoms, with his burly, huge figure,
his laughing, red face, staring eyes, and limp¬
ing leg, had been a friend to all of them.

His luck, till within the last six months,
had been a byword of derision throughout
Melbourne. Then, suddenly, the tide had
turned. His prospecting partner, Alec
Johnson, had stumbled on “ The Lone Star”
reef on the road to Coolgardie, had pegged
out the whole claim, and in less than a

month Joe Kinnoms had been feted a
hundred times, had opened a large office in
Collins Street, and was in the full tide of that
fortune which had so long lured and baulked
him. With the statutory dummies to form a
company, he and Johnson were sole pro¬
prietors of “ The Lone Star,” and the shares
went booming ever up. The Exchange ex¬
perts had reported on it in glowing terms,
and there was hardly a man in Collins Street
who did not clap Kinnoms on his back,
swear they had ever thought him a good
fellow, and craved the pleasure of drinking
his health in a bumper—at Joe’s expense.

On the strength of “ The Lone Star,” Joe
had plunged. His liabilities were heavy,
but they didn’t total half the assets of his
treasure-trove. Then on the New Year’s
Day his ' telegrams to his partner remained
unanswered ; a whisper got abroad that the
reef had suddenly panned out. The rumour
was confirmed, and from twenty-seven pounds
a ten-pound share “ The Lone Star’’slumped

LA UR A.

67 3

to threepence with no buyers, and “ old Joe’s
luck ” again became a proverb.

He sat in his sanctum staring blindly at
his private ledger. The figures spelt ruin—
inevitable, overwhelming. As he thought of
his long life-struggle, his late glorious hopes,
his one daughter, Laura, a great groan burst
from him. As if in sudden mockery of his
thoughts the voice of his daughter rose in the
outer office.

“Daddy not in to me, Mr. Tims?” she
was exclaiming. “ I’ll watch it ! I’ll see
my daddy when I like, -if the governor and
his wife were with him ! ”

Next moment the private door was flung
open and the girl rushed in. Just over the
threshold she stopped short, her face blanch¬
ing suddenly at the sight of her father.

About eighteen years of age, erect and
springy as an ash sapling, she was a picture
warm and lovely enough to light the eyes of
the most fastidious of parents. Her face
was startling almost in its brilliant fairness,
its rose-leaf, crystal complexion, a fairness
only enhanced by the scarlet curve of the full
lips, the melting, sunny blue of her eyes,
and the golden shimmering of the locks that
nestled beneath the sailor-hat. She was
dressed in a navy blue yachting costume,
which suited her admirably, at once setting
off in its contrast her blonde loveliness and
suggesting the subtle, long curves of the
youthful form.

Her pause was only of a second’s duration.
The next moment she had flung herself into
her father’s arms, crying^ “ Daddy, dear old
dad, what is the matter ? ”

Old Joe for the first time in his life re¬
pulsed her irritably, looked stupidly round
for a moment, then lifting his hands to his
head reeled into a chair. The clerks, fright¬
ened at the swift purpling of his face,
gathered silently at the door.

“ Get a doctor, Mr. Tims,” said the girl,
quietly, as she bent over her father, loosening
his collar. “ And you boys had better get
to your business. Dad won’t be too pleased
to find you a-gaping there when he does
come round.”

Then, as her father stirred, she bent over
him again, catching his thickly muttered
words.

“ Too late, Lottie ! ” he said, using her
child-name. “It’s the last settling-day.
Stick to ‘ The Lone Star,’ girlie. Johnson
a rogue; or put away. Reef’s there all right.
The Lone Star! . . . . Lower tunnel ....
Remember 1 ”

Fie swayed to and fro for a moment, made

Vo| *vii.— 85.

a convulsive grasp at his throat, then, with a
heavy lurch forwards, slipped through his
daughter’s arms on to the floor, dead!

It was about six weeks later that the camp
at Riniwaloo, some hundred or so miles from
Coolgardie, knocking off work at sundown,
was gathered about the store canteen of
Miles Hardy, watching with a somewhat list¬
less interest the blurred figure of a horseman
creeping slowly down the long ridge that led
to the camp.

It was as wild a bit of scenery as Australia
knows how to afford. Two great rolling,
climbing stretches of mountain rising either
side of a mournful, still gully, and towering
away 3,000ft. up to the northern and southern
skies. Far beneath the eternal silence of the
gaunt gum trees, rude slabs of rock, cosy
nooks of fern. The camp was on the
northern side, within half a mile of the now
deserted “ Lone Star Reef.” Having been
built there in the first rush, there it stayed,
though the miners were all occupied on the
fairly rich reef that lay across the gully.
About 800 men in all, they included already
a banker, a parson, a storekeeping publican,
police agents, and the usual riff-raff, scum,
and honest workers of a year-old venture.

The sun dipping down in a blaze of shim¬
mering gold over the western purpled road
made it difficult to the watchers outside the
canteen to get a fair squint at the new-comer.
As the golden orb sank lower, however, the
long shadows threw the approaching rider
into distinct relief, bringing a score of steely
eyes into a blind, concentrated gaze of
astonishment.

“ Eli’ me, if it ain’t a femayle ! ” stuttered
Jos Leslie, ex - African trooper, at last,
breaking the silence.

.The exclamation emptied the canteen in
a moment.

Comment ran high, and the elastic voca¬
bulary of the camp was taxed to the utter¬
most to supply adequate ejaculations.

Save so far as memory was concerned, a
woman had hitherto been an unknown quan¬
tity in Riniwaloo, and many a rough miner
anxiously scanned the approaching form
with dubious eye. Whose wife was it?
Whose girl ? And what the merry flames
did she want, anyhow ?

The reality took their breath away. For
as the girl rode up, she reined in her horse
in front of the silent and rather embarrassed
crowd and regarded it critically. She did
not seem in the least disconcerted, and many
a one there, noting with swift, evasive glance

674

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

the small gloved hands, the perfectly cut
habit, the delicate, wind-bronzed face with its
glory of heavenly eyes and golden hair, felt
strange tuggings at their hearts and lumpy
sensations of home in their throats.

Someone in the crowd muttered, “My
eyes ! Ain’t she a corker ! ” Then there
was a swift rustle and the sound of a thud,
and three men dragged an unconscious form
into the canteen and stowed it carefully
under a bench.

The girl had looked on unmoved till the
three men returned; then, with a nod and
a smile, that somehow brought a smirk to
every face there, she said, pleasantly :—

“ That’s just what daddy would have done.
And now, boys, I’ve come to stay, and as I

to work it, boys, and I want partners. Down
there in Melbourne the boys were very good
—the creditors, I mean. They let me keep
the £2,000 dad gave me before the crash
came—that and all the Lone Star shares.
Now, I want three working partners. Five
pounds a week, and a third share between
them. Those are my terms ! Now, who’s
on?”

She stopped, smiling inquiry on the up¬
turned faces before her. There was not a
man there who believed in “The Lone Star”
—not one who wanted to touch the dead
man’s luck. But there was any amount of
reef - like chivalry beneath those rugged,
tanned exteriors, and as the girl remained
glancing from one to another of them, a
rustle of sympathy moved the
crowd.

“ l’VE COME TO STAY."

guess you’re all dying to know who I am,
I’ll just tell you. You all know Joe Kinnoms
by name, and how he had £ The Lone Star’
there. Well ! daddy’s dead ! ”

She paused a moment, and the red mouth
quivered bravely, and the blue eyes shone
through a mist of tears as she went on : —

“ Daddy’s dead ! and he told me, before
the news of the reef panning out killed him,
to work c The Lone Star.’ I’ve come here

Then Jos Leslie stepped out,
somewhat sheepishly for all his
six-feet-one. He was a span,
clean-shaven, hard - jawed man,
with eyes blue and keen as a
sword - blade, and no one had
ever known him smile
either in the mining
camp or in the South
African troopers, where
he had served four
years.

“ I’m on, miss ! Jos
Leslie the boys call
me,” he said, shortly,
“ and ye can have my
shanty in an hour—till
you can suit yourself.
I camped with your
daddy in New Zealand
once afore you was
born, and he was a
white man, every
inch.”

“That’s all right
then ! ” said the girl,
and, slipping from her
horse, she walked up
to him and took his
great hand in her two
little ones and gave him a hearty grip.

Jos’s face broke into a smile, so wintry, so
fugitive, that it was gone before any but the
girl could notice it. Yet its mournful light
gave the girl a sense of security and home
she had not felt since she looked last on her
father’s face.

“ Then, Jos ! ” she said again, “ you shall
be my steward. And as I reckon it’s
customary in these parts for strangers to pay

LA UR A.

675

their footing, you’ll please call for drinks
round. Here’s my purse.”

And in spite of the sudden torrent of ex¬
postulations the girl held her own. “ No,”
she called, in her fresh young voice, “ I’m one
of you now, boys. And if you won’t have a
drink with me, why Jos’ll just have to ask
you why.”

That settled it, and they baptized the
acquaintance in Mike’s best. And when Jos
Leslie, having installed his senior partner in
his shanty, returned to the canteen, he smote
the bar with his fist till the dancing glasses
secured him attention.

Then his steely eyes roamed round for a
while on the silent faces, and his thin, trap¬
like lips opened, and he remarked, senten-
tiously and in the rhetoric most approved in
Riniwaloo :—

“ Boys ! I’m father to that girl. If any
o’ you wants to dispute my claim, we’ll come
right out now. And if any o’ you wants to
be hangin’ round her skirts in the future,
you’ll do well to remember that Jos Leslie
ain’t the one to stand any fooling. And now
we’ll drink to her ’ealth.”

II.

Life in Riniwaloo for the four months follow¬
ing the arrival of Laura Kinnoms was as new
an experience for the miners as for the girl.
She did more moral evangelizing in a week
than the parson had done in three months.
Even the roughest of them, if they sneered
behind her back, could not resist to her face
the genial cordiality—the unaffected sense of
comradeship the girl’s demeanour betrayed.
The whole camp showed a higher moral level,
a sense of self-respect betrayed in the sudden
demand for white shirts, soap and razors, and
in some cases, in the early days, evidenced
by the black eyes and disfigured faces of
persistent blasphemers. And as the weeks
rolled on, pity lent to rugged chivalry a more
tender force. For the “ Lone Star ” was still
barren. Shaft after shaft had been sunk.
Every square yard more or less tapped
yielded nothing but a promising quartz, whose
glistening white and emerald points were as a
will-o’-the-wisp luring to madness. Yet the
girl never lost hope. In her memory ever
rang those strange, blurred words her father
had muttered : “ Lone Star ! Lower tunnel!
Remember ! ” And again, “Johnson a rogue,
or put away.”

And of Johnson she had never been able
to find trace. He had with two others
quitted Riniwaloo on New Year’s night, and
had never since been heard of. The current

opinion of the camp was that he had sold his
partner with false information, realized his
shares, and cleared out when discovery
became inevitable. Likely enough, the girl
thought. Yet such a hypothesis did not
explain away her father’s words, “ lower
tunnel.” It was that lower tunnel she was
ever seeking.

Yet the end of four months found her
with only ^50 left, and still no clue. Her
position was verging on the desperate. Be¬
tween ruin and herself only marriage loomed.
Yet in her heart her father’s fibre was knitted
—a spirit unbreakable, rising ever from dis¬
aster to new effort, spurning help—the stern,
reckless spirit of the true colonist!

Only Jos Leslie remained her partner
now. The other two, despairing, had at the
end of two months sought further fields. In
old Jos, however, was a strong thread of
superstitious belief. To him it seemed that
“ Joe Kinnom’s luck ” was bound to turn at
his death, and the indomitable confidence of
his fair partner inspired him with a boundless
belief.

He would have been almost scandalized
had he been able to read the girl’s mind as
she wandered one evening in early July from
her shanty up towards the bluff where the
camp hung over the gully. For Laura was
beginning to despair, and the day’s events
had accentuated her mood. In all the little
community there was but one man who had
been able to disturb her calm purpose. The
bank manager, Jack Harrison, had from the
first fallen in love with the girl’s lovely face,
bright ways, and plucky, undaunted character.
He was a son of a Melbourne lawyer, dark,
with a rather stern, dominating face, a fierce,
black moustache, but eyes whose black
depths grew strangely glowing and tender as
his gaze rested on Laura Kinnoms. He had
proposed to her with firm regularity once a
month since her arrival. And on this
particular evening he had gone so far as to
plead her own position with her. But the
girl, in spite of the insistent clamour at her
heart, had been adamant.

“ Till ‘ The Lone Star,’ ” she said, “ pays
a 10 per cent, dividend, I’ll marry no man.”

“ But, Laura,” he had argued, taking the
little hands in his, and gathering comfort from
the restful, clinging way they lay there, “with
me you will only take another partner, and a
bit more capital.”

“That’s just it, dear!” she had replied.
“If it wasn’t for the little bit more capital
I’d take the partner at once.”

And Jack Harrison, for all his persuasive

676

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

eloquence, had to rest content with the
answer, with its half promise concealed
beneath the frankly blushing face and wholly
fearless smile.

Yet Laura herself was far from content.
The spirit of blue devils had seized her;
her footsteps wandered all unconsciously
up the cliff goat-track she had descended
with the bank manager that day. As the
bank came in sight she recollected herself,
and with a vivid blush dropped sitting on to
a boulder. It was dark enough in all con¬
science to hide her blushes, and she need not
have been afraid. But there was nevertheless
the hammering of three little words at her
heart that seemed to her to shout their vic¬
torious secret to the four winds: “ I love
him ! ” That was the simple refrain—old as
the hills—as melodious, as stubborn !

She could not hide it from herself. The
fact was too exultant, knowing his love. Yet
she had tried with all her soul to turn from
it, knowing in her loyal young heart that, once
she yielded herself to her lover, her father’s
last trust would soon be surrendered to his
business sense of possible gains.

The scene was desolate enough,
front of her right
across the great
brooding blackness
of the gully swam
the dim outline of
the Riniwaloo Reef
range. At the back
away on her left
the camp clung, a
blotch of blackness
with grey tents
staring out and
flickering stars of
oil - lamps. Away
up on the ridge,
hanging right on
to the sky-line, was
the bank, house
and business pre¬
mises combined,
not 50ft. away. It
had been built
that way for safety,
the back running
plumb with the
sheer descent of
the gully, the front
facing the irregular
line of shanties
that formed the
“ township.”

It had been a

dry “ wet season,” save for a drenching
shower the preceding night, but the sky was
clouded, blotting out moon and stars, and
lending the wild ruggedness around a degree
of mournfulness that intensified the lonely
silence.

The girl had been sitting some time, her
burning face buried in her hands, her
thoughts in a feverish riot not even her
straight habit of thinking could disentangle,
when through her numbed consciousness
there crept the sense of a persistent, recur¬
ring sound. At first she paid no heed to it.
But little by little the “tap,” “tap,” “tap,”
bore in on her, drawing her from introspec¬
tion to an almost unconscious curiosity.

“ Tap ! ” “ Tap ! ” “ Skin—k ! ”

The sound was unmistakable. Her expe¬
rience of four months’ mining was sufficient
to indicate its source. Someone was mining
a tunnel under her feet—there below the face
of the cliff. The strangeness of the proceed¬
ing, intensified by the lateness of the hour,
suddenly electrified the girl into a state of
vivid interest. The boulder on which she
was sitting was not 10ft. away from the
edge of the shelving cliff. She crept silently
forward, and, lying
flat on her face,
leant far over,
listening. The
sound came now
quite distinctly.
She could hear the
tap of hammers, as
of men timbering a
tunnel. Now and
then a hoarse
whisper floated up,
and now and then,
too, a whirr of shale
scudded down the
smooth rock some
20ft. in front of her.

Her breath came
and went fast. In¬
stinctively, she felt she
was on the verge of a
great discovery, and her
father’s words raced
madly through her
brain—“ The lower tun¬
nel.” Her quick eyes,
accustomed to the
gloom, noticed that the
cliff beneath her was
honeycombed with great
cracks and strewn with
a wiry brushwood. On

“ SHE LET HER BODY

SLIP OVER THE EDGE.”

LA UR A.

677

the hot impulse of the moment, she writhed
round and let her body slip slowly over the
edge, clinging fiercely with her small, strong
hands to the wisps of win-grass. She had
lowered herself about 10ft. when she saw a
little to her right a kind of cave hollowed
out, through which the shale was ever and
again thrown. Resting on a ledge she
glanced backward to her left. An added
blackness in the face of the cliff showed her
almost instantly just such another opening.

With infinite care, her eyes blazing, her
lips set firm, she hauled herself from tuft to
tuft, her eyes and feet seeking wildly the
irregular foothold of the broken cliff, till her
bent face looked full into a round hole. For
a moment she hesitated, fear of the inside
holding her breath suspended. But again
the memory of those words, “ the lower
tunnel,” came on her. Inside was a faint
flicker of light. But the voices were more
blurred, the tapping almost muffled. She
set her teeth together and squeezed boldly
through the hole, finding herself on hands
and knees inside a narrow tunnel. The first
things her hands became aware of were that
she was kneeling between a pair of rails.
“ Truck rails, my word ! ” she murmured,
under her breath, as she rose softly to her
feet and strove to pierce the darkness in the
direction of that flickering light in front.

After a little pause, she collected her
energies and courage and advanced tip-toe
towards the light. Suddenly her foot struck
the metals, the light vanished, and her out¬
stretched hands found the damp cliff. She
followed the trend of it, her heart in her
mouth, and in a moment, with a swift move¬
ment, sank huddled to the ground. For as
she rounded the curve, she came into full
view of three men. A lantern on the
ground threw a coppery, dull glow on to
their faces, and in the light she saw as in a
flash of lightning the face of her father’s
quondam partner—Johnson. The recogni¬
tion staggered her, and her breath came in
short catches. It was true then, she thought,
after all, and Johnson was a rogue. As she
shivered huddled up against the wall, the
conversation left no room for doubt.

“ We’ll never get it finished to-night,
skipper,” said one of the men.

Alec Johnson turned on him savagely, one
hand supporting a large plank, which he was
driving against the wall by a long wooden
Peg-

“Who asked your d-d advice, Jacobs?”

he said. “ It’s a case of must. The escort
comes to-morrow, and ah the bullion goes

down in the afternoon. There’s ^60,000
in the safe to-night. And get it we must.”

“If it hadn’t been for that deluge last
night,” rejoined the other of the three, “ we’d
be all safe. But I don’t see the use, no more
than Jacobs, in all this timbering.”

“Don’t you?” sneered Johnson, fiercely.
“ You’d look smart, wouldn’t you, if when
we had the safe in the trolley the sides caved
in ? Very jolly spree for us all! My colonial!
Do you think,” he went on, with rising ire,
“ that I’ve planned and watched, worked and
lived in a blamed cave for six months for
this, to have it spoilt in the last moment?
When I let old Joe Kinnoms in—not that I
ever thought he’d kick the bucket over it—I
meant to grab the lot. As you boys know,
there’s a million of money lying down in the
mine below there. Once we’ve got the bank
safe down and blown the tunnel away, who
the blazes is to And us ? There’s sixty thou
in that safe, and I guess that’s enough
to buy out old Joe’s chit and run ‘The Lone
Star ’ as it ought to be run. So that safe’s
got to be run to-night. There ain’t more
than two or three planks between it and the
trolley, and by midnight it will be in the
lower tunnel. And now you buck to, my
boys, or quit.”

The eyes of the girl lying huddled behind
the wet rock would have startled her lover.
There was something of the same steel-like
glint in them that made Jos Leslie a feared
man in camp. Inch by inch she drew her¬
self backward towards the hole by which she
had entered. No doubt was in her mind.
The fearless spirit of old Joe Kinnoms was
on her, and its wealth, too, of resource. Even
in the moment of revelation she had formed
her plan. No word to the bank manager !
She would seek out her partner, Jos ! The
two of them would trail the gang to the
“ lower tunnel,” would vindicate her father’s
memory, and hold up the ruffians in the
very moment of their success.

As she crawled out of the hole and wriggled
up the slope she had no more consciousness
of the deadly depths beneath her than a
mountain goat. Once on the top she wound
her skirts up over her arm and ran, ran like
a wallaby, leaping from point to point till
she gained Jos Leslie’s hut. She gave a gasp
of joy to find old Jos, steely-eyed and stolidly
inquisitive as to her errand in such haste.

“I’ve found it, Jos!” she gasped. “The
lower tunnel. They’re going to hold up the
bank, and we are going to hold them up.
Don’t sit staring there. Put all the revolvers
you have in your pocket and come along.”

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

678

If the girl’s eager, flushed face roused
Jos’s suspicions as to her sanity, a glance
into the hard, shining eyes undeceived him.
He rose solemnly and
loaded three revolvers.

Then just as solemnly
he unloaded one and
handed it to the girl,
stuffing the other two
into his pockets.

“You won’t kill me
with that,” he said,
gravely, with uncon¬
scious irony. “ And
no w come
along, my
pretty, and you
shall tell me
all about it on
the road.”

other reward than her satisfaction. He had
the elemental clearness of the savage in his
perception of emotions, and the present

occasion filled
him with joy.
There was
man’s work in
front of him,
and he meant
to fulfil it,
ch eerfully,
completely. *
He would
not allow the
girl to lead the
way to the hole,
but, leaning far
over, swung her
to and fro by
his wiry arms,

“ don’t sit staring there.”

III.

It was a good hour’s climb from Jos Leslie’s
shanty to the spot where Laura had escaladed
the cliff, and by the time they reached the
place, a nasty drizzle had set in, and Jos had
been told the full account of what had
happened. Laura, gazing at him now and
then through the darkness, felt her breath
catching between a breath and a sob at the
rigid outlines of his face and the grey glowing
of his eyes. Jos had loved old Joe Kinnoms
as mates in a breast-high stream sometimes
learn to love a man compounded of cheerful
unselfishness and unvarying pluck. He loved
the daughter, too—in a different way, as the
wild natures of rock and riot and bush life
love the glint of a particular star—in silence
rendered very dear and holy by a reverence
strange to their lives, a reverence incarnating
all -the unbidden, haunting, smothered
impulses of lives cast in alien ways.

Laura’s hopes, her fears, her love, and
especially her vengeance—w$re his. Body
and soul he knew no other aim, sought no

till her feet found footing beneath it. A
minute afterwards he had joined her inside
the tunnel. The sound of a sudden clang,
and a muttered oath, warned them they were
only just in time. A few strides brought
them to the corner where Laura had shel¬
tered, and, crouching low, they listened to
the faint hum and groaning of wheels rapidly
approaching.

“ Get right behind me, my pretty,” said
Jos, in a whisper, as the light of a lantern
swung to the corner. In each hand he
had a revolver, and as the girl crouched
behind him she whispered, “ Don’t shoot !
Remember the tunnel.”

fos’s head just moved in response. Next
moment a trolley, with a lantern swung on
front, rolled softly past them, casting a thin,
shadowy light down the glistening rails. On
the trolley was a huge safe, and sitting on
the safe was Alec Johnson, his face flushed
and eager, and in his hand the handle of the
brake.

“Softly boys,” he whispered, turning to

LA UR A.

679

the two men pushing at the back. “ Softly
does it round the corners. Whoa ! Hold
her ! So !

“ Now, Jim,” he went on, addressing one
of the men, “ you go back and fire the mine.
Me and Jacobs will take on the trolley and
wait for you round the next turn.”

The two in the corner, the man and the
girl, crouched lower and lower in the shadows.
The lamp cast its light away from them, the
great safe enveloping all the rearward
in black shadow. They could barely
distinguish the form of the man “Jim”
as he returned slowly, and by the
diminishing flicker and sudden dis¬
appearance of the light, they knew the
trolley had turned the next corner.

“Sit like a mouse, pretty,” whis¬
pered Jos, as the returning figure
approached. Then, before Laura
could breathe a word, he had glided
away to the corner. Next moment
there was a muffled groan, a stumble,
and then Jos returned dragging
after him the form of a man,
one huge hand on his throat,
the other on his mouth.

“ Quick, miss ! ” he whis¬
pered. “ Your hat or scarf, or
anything for a gag.”

In a moment Laura had
unpinned her Tam-o’Shanter,
and as Jos removed his hand,
before the man could recover
his breath she had crammed
the soft woollen thing into his
mouth. Within two minutes
Jos had him tied hand and
foot and knees, tight, in¬
capable.

“Take my advice, sonny,”
the ex-trooper whispered, as he “ the

was about to depart. “ Lie
still, and we’ll collect you for Queen’s
evidence.” Then taking Laura by the hand,
the two crept cautiously along, following the
feel of the rails by their feet.

For a full half-hour the two strode
onwards, ever down by a gentle descent.
The place was in densest darkness, and they
dared not strike a light. Suddenly, however,
the tunnel took a- swift turn, and next
moment Laura and her partner stood in a
subdued flood of light.

The scene before them was an extra¬
ordinary one. They were in a small natural
cave, and their trained eyes could see at a
glance that one of its sides was seamed with
a dusky red scar, the hall-mark of reef gold,

In the centre of the cave the trolley stood
with the safe still untouched, and the lantern
flashing its flickering light on the sullen,
wealthy walls. By the side of the trolley the
two men, Alec Johnson and Jacobs, were
wrestling in deadly combat, each with knife
in hand, hard gripped and writhing in the
other’s clasp. The effect was almost instan¬
taneous, for even as Jos and Laura entered,
the two struggling men fell with a crash,

TWO MEN WERE WRESTLING IN DEADLY COMBAT.”

Johnson uppermost, Jacobs lying helplessly
entangled and strangely still between the
wheels, where a thin red pool began to grow.

Johnson’s knife was held on high, and he
snarled savagely.

“ Did you think I’d chuck old Joe to

share with such a white-livered-” then

he paused, his eyes catching the growing
pool of red, his sense numbly conscious of
the other’s clay-like inertness. He shrank
back, hastily rising to his feet, and furtively
shoving his knife into his belt. Then with
a swift, fearful glance he turned round—and
looked straight into the barrels of Jos
Leslie’s revolvers.

Hands up, Alec Johnson ! ” said Jos’s

68o

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

crisp, snarling tones. “ No palaver ! Hands
up !”

Johnson obeyed, mechanically, stupidly,
his eyes fixed on the strange apparition at
Leslie’s side. The girl’s face, white, rigid,
avenging, her great blazing eyes, the thin scar¬
let thread of her compressed lips, paralyzed
him. He found no room for thought, much
less resistance. And as in obedience to Jos’s
bidding her empty revolver covered him, he
suffered himself to be bound to the trolley
by Jos’s trusty knots.

Jos’s task was scarcely completed when a

telephoned the police, at once hitting on the
plan of the thieves. They had followed the
way of the safe, struck the trolley lines, and
arrived as has been shown, all unconscious of
the deadly peril that, save for Jos’s little bit of
garroting, had sent them all on another path.

As the agents took off Johnson and the
still unconscious Jacobs, Harrison lingered a
moment behind with the girl.

“ Won’t you say ‘ yes ’ even now, Laura ? ”
he begged, as his arm stole around her waist.

Laura looked-at him, a roguish smile about
her lips and demurely veiled eyes.

“ HE SUFFERED HIMSELF TO BE BOUND TO THE TROLLEY.”

rush of feet was heard, and next moment the
cave was flooded with light and men, con¬
spicuous among whom was Jack Harrison’s
towering figure and excited face.

“You!” he gasped, falling back at the
sight of Laura, as the police agents rushed
on Leslie and secured him. “ You ! ”

“Yes, Jack!” she answered, simply. “ I
struck this trail to-night, and Jos and I
followed them.”

Explanations were speedily exchanged, and
as the police agents heard how the girl and
man had held up the gang, their first sus¬
picions changed into hearty congratulations.
Nor was their content diminished when they
heard of the scheme of the mine. For the
bank manager, having been by chance in his
office at the moment when the safe had dis¬
appeared bodily from his view, had promptly

“ Do you think,” she answered, pointing
to the dull glowing of the reef gold, “do you
think it will pay a dividend of io per cent. ?”

Then with a sudden twist releasing herself,
she turned to Jos, standing stiffly by.

“What do you think, dear old Jos? Will
it pay io per cent. ? ”

“ There’s never no knowing,” he said,
gruffly, “ how them kind of dividends run.
It may be ten, or fifty, or a hundred, and
agen it may be nothing—or wnss. But I
guess it might be worth trying.”

And if as he walked up the tunnel again
there was a strange moisture about his eyes,
there was a still stranger smile about his lips,
in which no cynicism mingled, and it was in
Jack Harrison’s hand that Laura’s rested as
they walked down the mountain path to her
“shanty.”

A Peep into “Punch."

By J. Holt Schooling.

[ The Proprietors of “Punch ” have given special permission to reproduce the accompanying illustrations. This
is the first occasion when a periodical has been enabled to present a selection from Mr. Punch's famous pages. ]

Part VI.—1870 to 1874.

The Last ’Bus. — Landlord. “ What are yer Coin’ to ’ave, Gen’lemen? ”
Driver (shiverbig). “ Well— Bless’d if I ain’t Famished! I should Like
—Is there Time for a ‘ Rabbit’? Who ’ave yer got Inside, Bob?”

Conductor (aloud). “Oh, all Respectable, Tgh-minded, Well-to-Do
People ! Wouldn’t ’ave no Objection, I’m sure !! ”

[ Who could be “ disagreeable ” after this ?]

I.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1870.

■ HAT a very clever drawing Charles
Keene’s picture in No. i is !
Although in this small facsimile
the effect is not so good as in the
much larger Punch- drawing, it is
really wonderful to see, even here, how this
picture actually tells us of the exact sur¬
roundings of this journey by “ the last
’bus” into a London suburb. The nip of
the night air is felt as one looks at this
picture, and the cold darkness ahead of
the cheery inn is as real as the attitudes

Little Ada. “ I wish I’d got Teeth like yours, Aunt Lizzie, it
would be so Nice to Take ’em out to Play with ! ”

2.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1870.

Vol. xvii.—86.

of the passengers huddling together
inside the ’bus, on the box - seat
of which is a half-frozen grumpy
man by the side of the driver, who
wants a “ Welsh rabbit,” while a fat-
faced and artful conductor con¬
ciliates the inside passengers, at any
rate, by his emphatic assertion that
they are “ all Respectable, Tgh-
minded, Well-to-Do People,” who
“ Wouldn’t ’ave no Objection, I’m
sure,” to the delay caused by com¬
pliance with the driver’s wish to
have a “ Rabbit.”

Look, in No. 2, at the expression
on the gentleman’s face who is
doing a discreet throat-cough on to
the top of his hat, as, with eyes
cast down, he tries to look uncon-

A DUEL TO THE DEATH.

Pn*c». " PRAT ETAND BACK, MADAM. TOC MEAN WELL; BCT THIS IS AH OLD PAMILI QCARRBL,
_ AND WE MOST riQBT IT OCTf _

3.—BRITANNIA'S ATTEMPT TO PREVENT THE FRANCO-GERMAN
WAR. BY SIR JOHN TENNIEL, JULY 23, 1870.

scious of the appalling wish just uttered by
the sweet child to her Aunt Lizzie, the
gentleman’s hostess—Charles Keene again
—inimitable, is it not ?

682

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Emperor declared
war against Prussia.

In July, France’s
shout .was u a Berlin !
a Berlin ! ” but so
delusory were the
French official
accounts to Napo¬
leon III. of the
might of his bat¬
talions, that at once
France had to act
on the defensive
against the sturdy,
well - handled . Prus¬
sians, who tramped,
tramped, tramped
across into France
and drove the
Frenchmen back at
all points. In less
than two months
after Tenniel drew
No. 3, he was called
upon to show in car-

Christmas Over the Border. —Southerner
(forgetting that Christmas Day Jails on Sunday
this year). “Good morning, Mr. Scarebairn. A
Merry Christmas.”

The Rev. Mr. S. “E—h, Mon! That’s nae a
fitt?”’ Aejective to pit afore the Sabbath ! ! ”

6. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1870.

Then in Nos. 3
and 4 are two finely-
conceived cartoons
drawn by Sir John
Tenniel, who has
never failed to do
full justice to a good
cartoon-idea, whether
the conception come
from himself or from
the combined forces
of the Punch- table,
at which once a week
the forthcoming car¬
toon is discussed and
arranged. These two
cartoons touch the
Franco-German War
of 1870 : in No. 3,
published July 23,

1870, Britannia tries
to prevent the duel
between Napoleon
III. and the German
Emperor William I.

(then merely King of
Prussia), but the
Frenchman puts Britannia back with the words,
“Pray stand back, Madam. You mean well, but
this is an old family quarrel, and we must fight it
out!” Napoleon III. simply forced this war on
Prussia, upon a frivolous pretext, and by so doing
delivered himself and his country into the hands
of his enemy—stiff - backed Bismarck must have
smiled a grim smile on the other side of the Rhine
when, on July 16, 1870, the deluded French

THE DUEL DECIDED.

Sas. *100 Hi YE JOUGHT OALLAXTLT. SIR. HAT I HOT GEAR tOU SAT TOO Bjrg tNOUGR
lie Sumo* * 1 HAYS BUM DECEIVED ABOPT MT STRINOTH. I HAVE HO CBOICt.* (W Srpl'.U,. 1JJ0.

4.— BY SIR JOHN TENNIEL, SEPTEMBER IO, 1870.

{ , Degenerate ^Daughter. —Shuddering IViJe oj Charlie’s bosom.

ir r f miSe me ! Charlie, dear, O promise me, that you'll never go and let your¬
self be Organised into a Soldier ! and that if ever the Enemy wants to come
and take England, you and I and Maud and Baby .will Fly to other Climes,
and Let Him!/'”

His Mother-in-Law. “Don’t Talk such Unwomanly Nonsense, Matilda!
W hy, if ever the Foreign Invader dared to set his Foot on British Ground, it
would be some Compensation, at least, to me, to Know that my Husband was
among the very Jrst to Confront the Foe ! ”

5. —BY DU MAURIER, 1870.

toon No. 4 (published September
10, 1870) the result of the duel
between the two men. The date
inserted in the corner of No. 4,
“2nd September, 1870,” refers to
the surrender on that day of the
Emperor Napoleon with his army
of 100,000 men, at Sedan. We
see in this cartoon the beaten
Frenchman staggering against the

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH."

683

Desperate Case!— M. A. (endeavouring to
instil Euclid into the mind of Private Pupil going
into the Army). “Now, if the Three Sides of this
Triangle are all Equal, what will Happen?”

Pupil (confidently ). “ Well, Sir, I should Say the
Fourth would be Equal, too ! ! ”

7.— PUBLISHED IN 1871.

tree as he groans out, “ I have been
deceived about my strength! I
have no' choice,” in reply to the
King of Prussia’s words, “ You
have fought gallantly, Sir. May I
not hear you say you have
enough ? ”

An amusing echo of the then
prevalent war-feeling is given by
Du Maurier in No. 5. Charles
Keene illustrates a good Scots joke
in No. 6, and, glancing at No. 7,
we see in No. 8 an interesting
example of Mr. Linley Sambourne’s
early style, very different from the
Sambourne - drawings of to - day,
which have for so long a while

been one of the best-liked features of Punch. This
early - Sambourne drawing illustrates the rivalry in
1871 (and more recently than then) between the
smashing-force of big guns and the resistive-power
of armour-plates. The gun seen here has just

Brutum Fulmen [A Harmless Thunderbolt]. — Old Gentleman.
“ Now' you Children, Til tell 3*011 what it is : if 3'ou make any more Noise
in Front of my House, I’ll Speak to that Policeman.”

Chorus of Juveniles (much tickled). “That P’liseman ! Lor’ we ain’t
Afeerd of 'dm ! Why, that's Father !”

9. —BY DU MAURIER, 1870.

beaten the armour-plated target, and is receiving
with a pleased grin the congratulations of the
artillery officer who shakes the “ hand ” of the
victorious big gun.

Pictures 9, 10, and 11 bring us to a very funny

Mr. McSkirliguy ( be¬
guiling the time with
some cheerfulpibrochs
on his national in¬
strument.)

IO.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1871.

Mr. Southdown (travelling north
with his Family by the Night
Mail). “Dear, dear, dear! What
a Shame they don’t Grease the
Wheels of these Carriages ! I can’t
get a Wink of Sleep! (Mrs. S.
groans in sympathy.) I declare I’ll
Complain to the Directors.”

WHILE BREATHING CHANTERS PROUDLY SWELL.”-Scorr.

joke in No. 12, and after the next two, Nos. 13
and 14, we see a powerful cartoon by Tenniel
entitled “ Suspense.” This No. 15, in which
Britannia holds her breath in suspense as she
gazes at the closed door of a sick room, relates to

68 4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

the struggle for
life of the Prince
of Wales when
in December,
1871, he was
attacked by
typhoid fever.
At the date of
this cartoon,
December 23,
1871, the Prince’s
life was almost
despaired of.
But the Prince
lived, and on
March 2, 1872,
Tenniel gave us,
in Punchy another
sequel-cartoon, a
great double-

Behind the Scenes (the bachelor friends of Benedick have just taken
their departure).— Benedick (who has married Money , and still smarts
under some of the consequences). “ O, I say, Mary Ann. I wish to
Goodness you wouldn’t Pet me in Public. I don’t so much Mind it—
when we re Alone, but before a Lot of Fellows, hang it all, you Know! ”
Mary Ann (who is up in Mr. Anthony Trollope). “And why not,
my Phoebus? Should not a Woman Glory in her Love?”

Benedick. “ O, Bother!-”

II.—BY DU MAURIER, 187T.

grin of the
beach - minstrel
and by his stri¬
dent “threat”—
“O let me Kiss
h i m f 0 r his
Mother ! ” No.
17 is rather
funny, and in
No. 18 the old
gentleman is very
cleverly drawn,
concerning
whom startled
Tommy asks his
mother : “ Does
that Old Genkle-
man bite , Mam¬
ma ? ”

There is a lot

Commercial Instinct. — Dugald. “Did ye
hear that Sawney McNab was ta’en up for
Stealin’ a Coo ? ”

Donald. “ Hoot, toot, the Stipit Bodie ! Could
he no Bocht it an’ no Paid for’t? ”

12.— BY W. RALSTON, 1871.

Rather Inconsiderate !—Policeman (suddenly,
to Street Performer). “ Now, then ! just you Move
on, will yer?” 13.— by du maurier, 1871.

page one of
happy omen,
showing the
“ Thanksgiving ”
at St. Paul’s
Cathedral on
February 27,
1872.

Pictures 16,
17, and 18 are
all by George Du
Maurier. The
little boy in No.
16 rushes to his
mother terrified
by the frightful

A General Salute. — Captain Dyngivcll , i st R.V. (sotio voce). “ Now,
what the Dooce can these Sympson Gals mean by Looking in that ridiculous
Manner ?” 14.— BY w. RALSTON, 1871.

of good sense,
as well as much
fine artistry, in
Sir John Ten-
niePs cartoon
No. 19 — “The
Real Cap of
Liberty.” The
British Lion,
holding a crown
in one hand,
with the other
knocks a repub¬
lican cap from
the head of an
artisan depicted

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

685

SUSPENSE.

15. —WHEN THE PRINCE OK WALES WAS HOVERING BETWEEN
LIFE AND DEATH. BY TENNIEL, DECEMBER 23, 1871.

as a donkey, exclaiming: “What can that cap
promise, that my croivn doesn’t perform ?

Eh, stoopid ? ” Punch is always so sensible :
a bit “ robust,” sometimes, in his plain
words, as, for example, when, a few months
ago, he boldly gave vent to the feelings of ninety-
nine men out of a hundred, and by his literal
expression of public feeling had a dissentient
gentleman’s umbrella struck through the glass of
his famous window at 85, Fleet Street.

You will see in No. 19 that the “donkey”
holds a paper in his right hand labelled, “Great
***** [H]ole in the Wall.” Being not quite
clear as to the meaning of this paper, I asked

A Valuable Acquisition. —Dutiful Nephew. “ O, Uncle,
I thought you wouldn’t Mind my bringing my friend Grigg
from our Office. He ain’t much to Look at, artd he can’t
Dance, and he don’t Talk, and he won’t Play Cards—but he’s
such a Mimic ! ! To - Morrow he’ll Imitate you and Aunt
Betsy in a way that’ll make all the Fellows Roar! ! /”

17.— BY DU MAURIER, 1872.

the Wall,’ a low typical public - house,

frequented by a
lican ’ agitators.”

particular class of ‘repub-

A Voice From the Sea. —“ O let me Kiss him for his Mother ! ”
16. —BY DU MAURIER, 1872.

Zoological. — Little Tommy Trout (who has
never seen a Respirator before). “Does that Old-
Genkleman Bite, Mamma?”

18. —BY DU MAURIER, 1872.

These words by Sir John explain
the paper in the ass’s hand, and
the general motif of the cartoon
is, of course, a thoroughly sensible
statement, based on the silly repub-

Sir John Tenniel to explain this point, which
only the lapse of years has rendered in¬
distinct. Sir John wrote: “I fancy that
the paper in the ass’s hand merely indicates
a ‘ great ’ meeting to be held at ‘ The Hole

686

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

THE REAL CAP OF LIBERTY.

Burma Lm. "WHAT CAN THAT CAP PR0M13S, THAT MY CflOJT.Y DOESN’T PERFORM? EB. STOOPlDf"
19.— BY TENNIEL, 1871.

pipe “ loaded ”
to the tune of
^200,000,000
damages said to
have been caused
to the interests
of the Northern
States of America
during the war in
1863-65 with the
Southern States
by our action in
letting the war¬
ship Alabama
and other South¬
ern cruisers leave
British dock¬
yards and ports
to inflict damage
upon the ship¬
ping, etc., of the
Northerners. But
Wil-yum - ew-art
doesn’t see it: he
won’t take that
Peace - pipe : he
says, indeed,
“That is no
Peace-pipe! Thy
Cousin cannot
smoke that!”
And then Roo-ti-tooit (Ranch on
the right) chips in with the sug¬
gestion : “ Hath not our Cousin,
‘The Downy Bird,’ been at the
fire-water of the Pale Faces ? ”

This claim for ^200,000,000 was

Ceremony. — “ Well, good-bye, dear Mrs. Jones. I hope you will Excuse
my not having Called—the Distance, you know ! Perhaps you will kindly
take this as a Visit ? ”

“ O, certainly! And perhaps you will kindly take this as a Visit
Returned! ! ” 20.— by du maurier, 1872.

Punch, Mr. Gladstone, and Cousin Jonathan
squat, as North American Indians, round a fire,
and they are trying to smoke the Pipe of Peace,
and so to arrange the dispute between us and
the United States that years ago dragged on over
the Alabama claims for compensation made upon
us by the United States.

me! Has

But Jo-na-than ( The Downy Bird ) is offering
to Wil-yum-ew-art (The Cheerful Rock) a Peace-

Experientia Docet. — “ O dear
Tittens dot Pins in their Toes, I vunder 1
2i.— by du maurier, 1872.

lican fads which
from time to
time crop up,
even in this
country.

The drawing
of this cartoon is
very fine.

The bit of
social satire in
No. 20 is by Du
Maurier, and he
also drew No.
21, where the
little girl, who
has for the first
time discovered
that even a
kitten’s paws are
not always the
velvet they seem
to be, exclaims,
in some dismay
“ O dear me !
Has Tittens dot
Pins in their
Toes, I vunder! ”

The cartoon
in No. 22 is
very pithy. Mr.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH

687

tive of the United States, whence
have come to these islands during
the years which now separate us
from the year of this cartoon, 1872,
so many other charming female
representatives of the United States,
to make their homes with us.

Nos. 28 and 29 give us a Scotch
and an Irish joke drawn by Keene;
No. 30 is one of Du Maurier’s
“ socials,” and No. 31 is an amusing
English joke by Keene.

The Punch -period at which we
are now peeping—the years 1870-
1874—is rich in cartoons of much

Gentle Paternal Satire .—frate Parent. “O!
Yer don’t want to go into Business, don’t yer ! O!
Yer want to be a Clerk in the Post-Horfice, do yer !
Post-Horfice, indeed! Why, all you're fit for is to
Stand Outside with your Tongue hout, for People
to Wet their Stamps against! ”

23.—BY DU MAURIER, 1872.

Tenniel, entitled “The Loving Cup,”
with the words : In this we bury all
unkindness !

This cartoon relates to the settle¬
ment of the Alabama claims for
the relatively small amount of
^3,100,000, the figures written
round the edge of the cup which
John Bull is very genially handing
to the charming female representa-

A Warning to Enamoured Curates.— Young Lady. “ And so Adam
was very Happy! Now, can you Tell me what great Sorrow fell on him?”
Scholar . “ Please, Miss, he got a Wife ! ”

25.—BY DU MAURIER, 1872.

Smoking the . “ Calumet.” —Jo-na-than (The Downy Bird).
“ Come, my Cousin ! Let us smoke the Peace-pipe ! ”
Wil-yum-ew-art (The Cheerful Rock). “That is no Peace-pipe!
Thy Cousin cannot smoke that! ”

Roo-ti-tooit (The Wise Buffalo). “Hath not our Cousin ‘The
Downy Bird ’ been at the fire-water of the Pale Faces ? ”

22.—A REFERENCE to THE EXORBITANT “ALABAMA” CLAIMS’,
BY TENNIEL, 1872.

of course utterly preposterous, and passing the
Punch pictures Nos. 23, 24, 25, and 26, we
see in No. 27 a very pleasing cartoon by

“ Honesty is the Best Policy.” — Host (really in
agony about his polished inlaid floor). “ Hadn’t you better
come on the Carpet, Old Fellow? I’m so afraid you might
Slip, you know.”

Guest. “ O, it’s all right, Old Fellow—Thanks! There’s a
Nail at the End, you know ! ”

24.—PUBLISHED IN 1873.

interest, a few of which I am able to show
here, while many others must be omitted.

688

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

27.—THE SETTLEMENT OF THE “ALABAMA ” CLAIMS WITH THE
UNITED STATES. BY TENNIEL, SEPTEMBER 28, 1872.

But there is one cartoon which must be
mentioned on account of its unique interest,
although I have no space to show it.

On July 29, 1871, Punch published a
cartoon by Tenniel entitled “ Ajax Defying
the Lightning,” which relates to a remarkable
instance of the Royal Warrant being made
use of, at Mr. Gladstone’s instigation, to
checkmate the House of Lords upon an im¬
portant measure abolishing the purchase of
commissions in the Army. In the cartoon,
Gladstone is depicted as Ajax who grasps in
his hand a roll labelled “ No Purchase,” and
defies the forked lightning issuing from a

“ Blood is T hicker Than Water.” —“ What is the Matter,
De Mowbray? You seem Sad and Depressed ! ”

“ How can I Help it, my dear Fellow? It’s the Anniversary
of a sad Event in our Family. Young Aubrey de Mowbray (a
Younger Son, but a true De Mowbray) fell this Day, by the
T-TanH nf n Imv.lmrn Savnn at thf Rattlp nf Ha^tin?!; ! ” \Dc

Hand of a low-born Saxon, at the Battle of Hastings ! ’
Mowbray weeps.] 26. — by du maurier, 1873.

group of angry Lords, as he supports himself
on a great rock labelled “ Royal Warrant.”
The explanation of this famous departure
from usual Parliamentary procedure is as
follows:—

Gladstone on his accession to
power in 1868 resolved to include
in his list of reforms the abolition
of the purchase of commissions in
the Army, a system which prior to
that date had been pronounced in¬
jurious by various Liberal politicians.

On July 3, 1871, the Bill passed
its third reading in the House of
Commons, and then the Conserva¬
tive peers in the Lords determined to
oppose the scheme of abolition—and
they of course had a majority in the
Lords.

Suddenly, and while the Lords
were preparing to upset the Bill,
Gladstone announced that as the
system of purchasing commissions

in the Army was the creation of Royal regu¬
lation, he had advised the Queen to cancel
the Royal Warrant which made purchase of
commissions legal! This smart move by
Gladstone was carried into effect, and the
Lords were completely sold.

But smart and successful as was this move
of Gladstone’s, Mr. Justin McCarthy, who
has a long account of this measure in his
“ History,” records that “ the hearts of many
sincere Liberals sank within them as they

Likes
North). ‘
Scotch
Two Pun’

His Money’s Worth. — English Passenger (by the Night Mail
Confounded Tedious Journey, this ! ”

Passenger. “ Tejious ! Sae it ought to be! (With a Groan.)
i Twalve and Saxpence, Second Class—Maunstr’s ! ! ”

28.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1872.

THE LOVING CUP.

••IX THIS W8 BCRY ALL U.VKISD5ESB 1 "-SUlye-t.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

689

“ Relapse.” — Squire. “ Why, Pat, what are you doing, Standing by the
Wall of the Public-House? I thought you were a Teetotaller ! ”

Pat. “Yes, yer Plonnor. I’m Just listenin’ to them Impenitent Boys
Drinking inside ! ” 29.— uy Charles keene, 1873.

heard the an¬
nouncement of
the triumph.”
The dodge of
using the Royal
Prerogative to
help the Minis¬
try out of a hole
was considered
even by some of
Gladstone’s own
adherents to be
an unwise step,
for as the poor,
baffled Lords
themselves
stated in their
resolution pass¬
ing the unwel-

An Extinguisher. — Forward and Loquacious Youth. “By Jove, you
know, upon my Word, now—if I were to See a Ghost, you know, I should
be a Chattering Idiot for the Rest of my Life ! ”

Ingenuous Maiden (dreamily). “ Have you Seen a Ghost?”

30.—BY DU MAURIER, 1873.

come Bill, the Government had succeeded
“ by the exercise of the prerogative and
without the aid of Parliament”—a
risky thing for any Ministry to do,
thus in serious legislation to put
the Royal Prerogative above the
procedure of Parliament.

Thus, the important measure
abolishing the purchase of com¬
missions in the Army was obtained
by the exercise of the Royal Pre¬
rogative, not by ordinary Parlia¬
mentary procedure ; and, strangely
enough, this abnormal course was
taken by a Liberal Premier, who,
moreover, was not a special favourite
of the Lady who held—and holds—
the Royal Prerogative.

Picture 32 is by Charles Keene.

How wonderfully true is the facial
expression of the “ Contemplative
Villager ” who, as he leans on the

Vol. xvii.— 87 .

wooden paling, slowly turns his
head towards the Rector with the
reply to the Rector’s praise of his
fine pig: “ Ah, yes, Sir, if we was only,
all of us, as Fit to Die as him, Sir ! ”
The cartoon by Tenniel in No.
33, a delightful piece of drawing,
represents Germany carrying off
from France the war indemnity of
^200,000,000. The verses which,
in Punch , accompany this cartoon
are headed :—

Verdun Evacuated.

Invaders’ tread is off thy soil, fair France.
Thou, scowling with just hate, behold’st
them go,

Indignant at unmerited mischance,

Which brought on thee unutterable woe.

Etc., etc., etc.

Now she retires,
and leaves thee
to repair
Thy ruins, and
thy shattered
strength re¬
store ;

To brood upon re¬
venge : or to
bezvare

Thy neighbours
of assailing
any more.

Verdun, a
town of France,
is also a first-
class fortress,
one of those
forts which the
Germans occu¬
pied with their
troops after the end of the war as security
for the payment of the big indemnity which,

“Hoist With Their Own Petard.” — Stern Examiner. “For
Instance, Sir, I should like to hear a Text from you.”

Cheeky Commoner. “ Well, fact is I haven’t loaded my Memory with
Texts. But in the Apocrypha (sic) there’s mention that ‘ round about were

four great Beasts’-” [ Plucked .]

31.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1873.

690

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

France, which were largely respon¬
sible for that rash war, cause Punch
in the twentieth century to repeat
those words so pregnant of meaning
to France —Beivare thy neighbours
of assailing any more ?

Pictures 34, 35, and 36 are by
Du Maurier, and No. 37 is by
Charles Keene. The cunning artist,
who here shows to us a portly old

A Tempting Inducement. — Cheerful Agent for Life
Assurance Company. “The Advantage of our Company is,
that you do not Forfeit your Policy either by being Hanged or
by committing Suicide ! Pray take a Prospectus ! ”

34.— BY DU MAURIER, 1874.

gentleman struck with wonderment at the
idea that he was originally a “ Primordial
Atomic Globule,” has deftly suggested by
the shape and the development of the old

“AU REVOIR! **

OtMMXMT. - riiEKfKX, U1DAXE, UTD IT -■»

_ fmci. •• T!JL 1 WZ EIULL MEET A0A.1B I"

33.— THE PAYMENT TO GERMANY BY FRANCE OF THE WAR
INDEMNITY OF ^200,000,000. BYTENNIEL, SEPTEMBER 27, 1873.

France when she was getting the worse of the
fight, we yet did not lose sight of the fact
that it was France who sought the war, not
Germany. How significant these italicized
words of the year 1873 read to us of the
present day ! Will the internal troubles of

The Line MUST be Drawn SOMEWHERE! — My
Lady. “ And why did you Leave your last Situation? "
Sensitive Being. “ Well, my Lady, I ’adn’t been in the ’Ouse
’ardly a Month when I hascertained as the Ladies of the Family
’ad never even been Presented at Court! ”

35.— BY DU MAURIER, 1873.

A Rustic Moralist. —Rector (going his Rounds). “ An uncommonly
fine Pig, Mr. Dibbles, I declare ! ”

Contemplative Villager. “ Ah, yes, Sir, if we was only, all of us, as Fit
to Die as him, Sir ! ! ” 32.— by Charles keene, 1873.

in our cartoon, Germany is carrying away in
a bag, and which France got together in a
marvellously short time.

I have italicized the concluding words of
the verse just quoted: friendly as we were to

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

691

Du Maurier satirizes in No. 39 the aesthetic craze
of twenty-five years ago. Absurd as was this
craze, yet when its extravagances had died away,
the movement did useful work in bringing to our
persons, homes, and furniture a condition of rational
aestheticism that had been wanting for too long.
Moreover, even if the aesthetic craze did nothing
else, we have to thank it for one of the most
delightful of the Savoy operas.

V1 n ous Log i c. —R cspectable P awnbroker ( roused
from his Slumbers at 3 a. m. by repeated Knockines
at his Door). “Well! What is it?”

Ebriosus. “ Whatsh the Time ? ”

Respectable Pawnbroker. “ What ! Do you mean
to Say you’ve got me out of Bed at this Time o’

Night to ask me such a Fool’s Question as that ?—

Police ! Police ! ! ”

Ebriosus. “Well, hang it, Governor — (hie!) —
you’ve got my Watch ! ”

36.—BY DU MAURIER, 1874.

gentleman’s tummy that he has indeed
evolved from a globular ancestry, atomic or
otherwise—probably otherwise.

In No. 38 Keene playfully suggests a
bicycle corps for the army, little thinking
when, in 1874, he drew this picture, that in
less than twenty years his idea would
become actual fact.

More Economy.-
Dragoons !

-A hint-to “ Gover’ment.” A cheap remount for Light
38.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1874.

The excellent joke in No. 40 would not appeal
to us if we had phonetic spelling, for the point of
it is in the different spelling of two same¬
sounding words — Law and Lor — a trivial
difference in spelling which gives great point
to this very clever drawing by Keene.

In the last year of this Punch-period,
1874, was published on February 14 a
Tenniel cartoon entitled “ Degenerate Days.”
This cartoon relates to a very famous reform

37.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1874.

The Passion for Old China. — Husband. “I think you
might let me Nurse that Teapot a little now , Margery ! You’ve
had it to yourself all the Morning, you know ! ”

39 -—BY DU MAURIER, 1874.

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THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

carried by Gladstone in 1872—The Vote by
Ballot at Parliamentary Elections. In the
cartoon (not included here) an enraged pub¬
lican says to a bleary “ Free and Indepen¬
dent Voter” who
is in his bar —

“ Call this a
General Elec¬
tion ? Why, ids
all over in about
a fortnight, and

not a fi-pun-note
among ’em,”
adds the half¬
drunk voter.

This general
election early in
1874 was the
first to take
place under the
new Vote-by-
Ballot Act, pre¬
viously carried
by Gladstone, who in January, 1874, suddenly
decided to dissolve Parliament, and to seek
for a restoration of the waning Liberal power
in the Commons.

“ Mr. Gladstone had surprised the con¬
stituencies,” w r rites Mr. Justin McCarthy.

pletely the balance of power. In a few days
the Liberal majority was gone.”

In connection with the cartoon just alluded
to, I lately came across a curious example of

the extraordi¬
nary ignorance
of French people
about us and
our ways. In
January, 1899,
a Parisian
newspaper, Le
Patriote , said :
“In England,
where the vote
is frankly put up
to auction, the
voter receives a
certain sum from
the pocket of
the candidate,
goes and drinks
it, and there's
an end of the
matter; but in France-,” etc., etc.

This extraordinary statement was written
in January of this year, mind you, not prior
to the “ Degenerate Days ” of the Punch
cartoon where the voter by ballot is saying :
“ And not a fi-pun-note among ’em.”

Maddening. — Husband . “ If, as I said before, Matilda, you still
cherished that Feeling of Affection for me which you once Professed, my
Wish would be Law to you. I repeat it, Matilda—Law ! ”

Matilda. “ Lor’ ! ” 40.— by Charles keene, 1874.

A Bargain. —“ I say, Bobby, just give us a Shove with this
[ere Parcel on to this ’ere Truck, and next Time yer Runs me
in, fUgo Quiet! ” 41.— by du maurier, 1874.

“We do not know whether the constituencies
surprised Mr. Gladstone. They certainly
surprised most persons, including themselves.
The result of the election was to upset com-

The Provincial Drama. — The Marquis (in the Play).
“ ’Aven’t I give’ yer the Edgication of a Gen’leman ? ”

Lord Adol/hus (Spendthrift Heir). “ You ’ave ! ! "

42.— PUBLISHED IN 1874.

Pictures 41 and 42 end the series of peeps,
for the years 1870—1874, into ten volumes
of Punch , which are perhaps the most interest¬
ing we have yet looked at.

I To be continued.')

Hilda Wade.

By Grant Allen.

IV.—THE EPISODE OF THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMIT SUICIDE.

FTER my poor friend Le
Geyt had murdered his wife,
in a sudden access of un¬
controllable anger, under the
deepest provocation, the police
naturally began to inquire for
him. It is a way they have : the police are
no respecters of persons ; neither do they
pry into the question of motives. They are
but poor casuists. A murder is for them a
murder, and a murderer a murderer : it is
not their habit to divide and distinguish
between case and case with Hilda Wade’s
analytical accuracy.

As. soon as my duties at St. Nathaniel’s
permitted me, on the evening of the dis¬
covery, I rushed round to Mrs. Mallet’s, Le
Geyt’s sister. I had been detained at the
hospital for some hours, however, watching a
critical case: and by the time I reached
Great Stanhope Street I found Hilda Wade,
in her nurse’s
dress, there be¬
fore me. Sebas¬
tian, it seemed,
had given her
leave out for
the evening :
she was a
supernumerary
nurse, attached
to his own
observation - cots
as special at-
tendant for
scientific pur¬
poses, and she
could generally
get an hour or
so whenever she
required it.

Mrs. Mallet
had been in the
breakfast-room
with Hilda be¬
fore I arrived :
but as I reached
the house she
rushed upstairs
to wash her red
eyes and com¬
pose herself a

“t%illed, bravely fighting,

little before the strain of meeting me : so I
had the opportunity for a few words alone
first with my prophetic companion.

“ You said just now at Nathaniel’s,” I
burst out, “ that Le Geyt would not be
hanged : he would commit suicide. What
did you mean by that ? What reason had
you for thinking so ? ”

Hilda Wade sank into a chair by the open
window, pulled a flower abstractedly from
the vase at her side, and began picking it to
pieces, floret after floret, with twitching
fingers. She was deeply moved. “ Well,
consider his family history,” she burst out at
last, looking up at me with her large brown
eyes as she reached the last petal. “ Heredity
counts. .... And after such a disaster ! ”
She said “ disaster,” not “ crime ” : I noted
mentally the reservation implied in the word.

“Heredity counts,” I answered. “Oh,
yes. It counts much. But what about Le
Geyt’s family history?” I
could not recall any instance
of suicide among his forebears.

“Well—his mother’s father
was General Faskally, you
know,” she re¬
plied, after a
pause, in her
strange, oblique
manner. “ Mr.
L e Geyt is
General Fas-
kally’s eldest
grandson.”

“ Exactly,” I
broke in, with a
man’s desire for
solid fact in
place of vague
intuition. “But I
fail to see quite
what that has to
do with it.”

“ The General
was killed in
India during the
Mutiny.”

“ I remember,
of course —
killed, bravely
fighting.”

694

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ Yes ; but it was on a forlorn hope, for
which he volunteered, and in the course of
which he is said to have walked straight into
an almost obvious ambuscade of the
enemy’s.”

“Now, my dear Miss Wade”—I always
dropped the title of “ Nurse ” by request,
when once we were well clear of Nathaniel’s
—“ I have every confidence, you are aware,
in your memory and your insight; but I do
confess I fail to see what bearing this
incident can have on poor Hugo’s chances
of being hanged or committing suicide.”

She picked a second flower, and once more
pulled out petal after petal. As she reached
the last again, she answered, slowly, “You
must have forgotten the circumstances. It
was no mere' accident. General Faskally had
made a serious strategical blunder at Jhansi.
He had sacrificed the lives of his subordinates
needlessly. He could not bear to face the
survivors. In the course of the retreat, he
volunteered to go on this forlorn hope, which
might equally well have been led by an officer
of lower rank : and he was permitted to do
so by Sir Colin in command, as a means of
retrieving his lost military character. He
carried his point: but he carried it recklessly:
taking care to be shot through the heart him¬
self in the first onslaught. That was virtual
suicide—honourable suicide to avoid disgrace,
at a moment of supreme remorse and horror.”

“You are right,” I admitted, after a
minute’s consideration. “ I see it now—
though I should never have thought of it.”

“ That is the use of being a woman,” she
answered.

I waited a second once more, and mused.
“ Still, that is only one doubtful case,” I
objected.

“ There was another, you must remember :
his uncle Alfred.”

“Alfred Le Geyt?”

“ No ; he died in his bed, quietly. Alfred
Faskally.”

“ What a memory you have! ” I cried,
astonished. “ Why, that was before our
time—in the days of the Chartist riots ! ”

She smiled a certain curious sibylline smile
of hers. Her earnest face looked prettier
than ever. “ I told you I could remember
many things that happened before I was
born,” she answered. “ This is one of
them.”

“ You remember it directly ? ”

“ How impossible ! Have I not often
explained to you that I am no diviner? I
read no book of fate : I call no spirits from
the vasty deep. I simply remember with

exceptional clearness what I read and hear.
And I have many times heard the story
about Alfred Faskally.”

“ So have I—but, I forget it.”

“ Unfortunately, I can't forget. That is a
sort of disease with me. . . . He was a special
constable in the Chartist riots: and being
a very strong and powerful man, like his
nephew Hugo, he used his truncheon—his
special constable’s baton or whatever you call
it—with excessive force upon a starveling
London tailor in the mob near Charing
Cross. The man was hit on the forehead—
badly hit, so that he died almost immediately
of concussion of the brain. A woman rushed
out of the crowd, at once, seized the dying
man, laid his head on her lap, and shrieked
out in a wildly despairing voice that he was
her husband and the father of thirteen
children. Alfred Faskally, who never meant
to kill the man, or even to hurt him,
but who was laying about him roundly
without realizing the terrific force of his
blows, was so horrified at what he had
done when he heard the woman’s cry, that
he rushed off straight to Waterloo Bridge in
an agony of remorse and—flung himself
over. He was drowned instantly.”

“ I recall the story now,” 1 answered:
“ but, do you know, as it was told me, I
think they said the mob threw Faskally over
in their desire for vengeance.”

“That is the official account, as told by
the Le Geyts and the Faskallys : they like to
have it believed their kinsman was murdered,
not that he committed suicide. But my
grandfather ”—I started : during the twelve
months that I had been brought into daily
relations with Hilda Wade that was the first
time I had heard her mention any member
of her own family, except once her mother—
“ my grandfather, who knew him well, and
who was present in the crowd at the time,
assured me many times that Alfred Faskally
really jumped over of his own accord, not
pursued by the mob, and that his last
horrified words as he leaped were, ‘ I never
meant it ! I never meant it! ’ However,
the family have always had luck in their
suicides. The jury believed the throwing-
over story, and found a verdict of ‘ wilful
murder ’ against some person or persons
unknown.”

“Luck in their suicides ! What a curious
phrase ! And you say, always. Were there
other cases, then ? ”

“ Constructively, yes : one of the Le Geyts,
you must recollect, went down with his ship
(just like his uncle, the General, in India)

HILDA

WADE.

when he might have quitted her: it is be¬
lieved he had given a mistaken order. You
remember, of course, he .was navigating
lieutenant. Another, Marcus, was said to
have shot himself by accident while cleaning
his gun—after a quarrel with his wife. But
you have heard all about it. ‘ The wrong
was on my side,’ he moaned, you know, when
they picked him up, dying, in the gun-room.
And one of the
Faskally girls, his
cousins, of whom
his wife was jealous
—that beautiful
Linda—became a
Catholic and went
into a convent at
once on Marcus’s
death: which, after
all, in such cases,
is merely a re¬
ligious and moral
way of committing
suicide — I mean,
for a woman who
takes the veil just
to cut herself off
from the world,
and who has no
vocation, as I hear
she had not.”

She filled me
with amazement.

“That is true,” I
exclaimed, “ when
one comes to think
of it. It shows the
same temperament
in fibre .... But,

I should never
have thought of it.”

“ No ? Well, I
believe it is true
for all that. In
every case, one
sees they choose
much the same
way of meeting a
reverse, a blunder,
an unpremeditated crime. The brave way
is, to go through with it, and face the music,
letting what will come: the cowardly way is,
to hide one’s head incontinently in a river, a
noose, or a convent cell.”

“Le Geyt is not a coward,” I interposed,
with warmth.

“No, not a coward — a manly-spirited,
great-hearted gentleman—but still, not quite
of the bravest type. He lacks one element.

1 he Le Geyts have physical courage—enough
and to spare—but their moral courage fails
them at a pinch. They rush into suicide or
its equivalent at critical moments, out of pure
boyish impulsiveness.”

A few minutes later Mrs. Mallet came in.
She was not broken down—on the contrary,
she was calm—stoically, tragically, pitiably
calm, with that ghastly calmness which is
more terrible by
far than the most
demonstrative
grief. Her face,
though deadly
white, did not
move a muscle.
Not a tear was in
her eyes. Even her
bloodless hands
hardly twitched at
the folds of her
hastily-assumed
black gown. She
clenched them
after a minute, when
she had grasped
mine silently:
I could see that
the nails dug deep
into the palms in
her painful resolve
to keep herself
from collapsing.

Hilda Wade,
with infinite sisterly
tenderness, led her
• over to a chair by
the window in the
summer twilight,
and took one
quivering hand in
hers. “ I have
been telling Dr.
Cumberledge,
Lina, about what
I most fear for
your dear brother,
darling: and
. . . . I think

.... he agrees with me.”

Mrs. Mallet turned to me, with hollow
eyes, .still preserving her tragic calm. “ I
am afraid of it too,” she said, her drawn lips
tremulous. “ Dr. Cumberledge, we must
get him back! We must induce him to
face it! ”

“And yet,” I answered, slowly, turning it
over in my own mind, “he has run away at
first. Why should he do that if he means—

FLUNG HIMSELF OVER.”

696

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

to commit suicide ? ” I hated to utter the
words before that broken soul; but there
was no way out of it.

Hilda interrupted me with a quiet sugges¬
tion. “ How do you know he has run away ? ”
she asked. “Are you not taking it for granted
that, if he meant suicide, he would blow his
brains out in his own house ? But surely
that would not be the Le Geyt way. They
are gentle-natured folk: they would never
blow their brains out or cut their throats.
For all we know, he may have made straight
for Waterloo Bridge,” she framed her lips to
the unspoken words, unseen by Mrs. Mallet,
“ like his uncle Alfred.”

“ That is true,” I answered, lip-reading. “I
never thought of that either.”

“ Still, I do not attach importance to this
idea,” she went on. “ I have some reason
for thinking he has run away . . . else¬
where ; and if so, our first task must be to
entice him back again.”

“ What are your reasons ? ” I asked,
humbly. Whatever they might be, I knew
enough of Hilda Wade by this time to know
that she had probably good grounds for
accepting them.

“ Oh, they may wait for the present,” she
answered. “ Other things are more pressing.
First, let Lina tell you what she thinks of
most moment.”

Mrs. Mallet braced herself up visibly to a
distressing effort. “You have seen the body,
Dr. Cumberledge ? ” she faltered.

“No, dear Mrs. Mallet, I have not. I
came straight from Nathaniel's. I have had
no time to see it.”

“ Dr. Sebastian has viewed it by my wish
—he has been so kind—and he will be
present as representing the family at the post¬
mortem. He notes that the wound was
inflicted with a dagger—a small ornamental
Norwegian dagger, which always lay, as I
know, on the little what-not by the blue sofa.”

I nodded assent. “Exactly, I have seen
it there.”

“ It was blunt and rusty—a mere toy
knife—not at all the sort of weapon a
man would make use of who designed to
commit a deliberate murder. The crime, if
there was a crime (which we do not admit),
must therefore have been wholly unpre¬
meditated.”

I bowed my head. “ For us who knew
Hugo, that goes without saying.”

She lent forward eagerly. “ Dr. Sebastian
has pointed out to me a line of defence which
would probably succeed—if we could only
induce poor Hugo to adopt it. He has ex¬

amined the blade and scabbard, and finds
that the dagger fits its sheath very tight, so
that it can only be withdrawn with consider¬
able violence. The blade sticks.” (I
nodded again.) “ It needs a hard pull to
wrench it out .... . He has also in¬
spected the wound, and assures me its
character is such that it might have been
self-inflicted.” She paused now and again,
and brought out her words with difficulty.

“ Self-inflicted, he suggests : therefore, that
this may have happened. It is admitted-
will be admitted—the servants overheard
it—we can make no reservation there—
a difference of opinion, an altercation
even, took place between Hugo and Clara
that evening ” — she started suddenly —
“why, it was only last night—it seems like
ages—an altercation about the children’s
schooling. Clara held strong views on the
subject of the children ”-—her eyes blinked
hard—“which Hugo did not share. We
throw out the hint, then, that Clara, during
the course of the dispute—we must call it a
dispute—accidentally took up this dagger
and toyed with it. You know her habit of
toying, when she had no knitting or needle¬
work. -In the course of playing with it (we
suggest) she tried to pull the knife out of its
sheath : failed : held it up, so, point upward :
pulled again : pulled harder—with a jerk, at
last, the sheath came off: the dagger sprang
up : it wounded Clara fatally. Hugo, know¬
ing that they had disagreed, knowing that
the servants had heard, and seeing her fall
suddenly dead before him, was seized with
horror—the Le Geyt impulsiveness !—lost
his head : rushed out: fancied the accident
would be mistaken for murder. But why?
A Q.C., don’t you know ! Recently married !
Most attached to his wife. It is plausible,
isn’t it ? ”

“ So plausible,” I answered, looking it
straight in the face, “ that ... it has but one
weak point. We might make a coroner’s
jury or even a common jury accept it,
on Sebastian’s expert evidence: Sebastian
can work wonders; but we could never
make-”

Hilda Wade finished the sentence for me
as I paused : “ Hugo Le Geyt consent to
advance it.”

I lowered my head. “ You have said it,”
I answered.

“ Not for the children’s sake ? ” Mrs.
Mallet cried, with clasped hands.

“ Not for the children’s sake even,” I
answered. “ Consider for a moment, Mrs.
Mallet: Ait true? Do you yourself believe it ?”

HILDA

WADE.

697

She threw herself back in her chair with a
dejected face. “ Oh, as for that,” she cried,
wearily, crossing her hands, “ before you and
Hilda, who know all, what need to prevari¬
cate? How can I believe it ? We understand
how it came about. That woman ! That
woman !”

“ The real wonder is,” Hilda murmured,
soothing her white hand, “ that he contained
himself so long ! ”

‘‘Well, we all know Hugo,” I went on, as
quietly as I was able; “and, knowing Hugo,
we know that he might be urged to commit
this wild act in a fierce moment of indignation
—righteous indignation on behalf of his
motherless girls, under tremendous provoca¬
tion. But we also know that, having once
committed it, he would never stoop to
disown it by a subterfuge.”

The heart-broken sister let her head drop
faintly. “So Hilda told me,” she mur¬
mured, “ and what Hilda says in these
matters is almost always final.”

We debated the question for some minutes
more: then Mrs. Mallet cried at last, “ At
any rate, he has fled for the moment, and
his flight alone brings the worst suspicion
upon him. That is our chief point. We
must find out where he is, and if he has
gone right away, we must bring him back to
London.”

“ Where do you think he has taken
refuge ? ”

“ The police, Dr. Sebastian has ascertained,
are watching the railway stations, and the
ports for the Continent.”

# “ Very like the police ! ” Hilda exclaimed,
with more than a touch of contempt in her
voice. “As if a clever man-of-the-world like
Hugo Le Geyt would run away by rail, or
start off to the Continent ! Every English¬
man is noticeable on the Continent. It
would be sheer madness.”

“.You think he has not gone there, then ? ”
I cried, deeply interested.

. “ Of course not. That is the point I
hinted at just now. He has defended many
persons accused of murder, and he often
spoke to me of their incredible folly, when
trying to escape, in going by rail, or in setting
out from England for Paris. An Englishman,
he used to say, is least observed in his own
country. In this case, I think I know where
he has gone, and how he went there.”

“ Where, then ? ”

“ Where comes last : how first. It is a
question of inference.”

“ Explain. We know your powers.”

“ Well, I take it for granted that he killed

Vol. xvii.—88.

her—we must not mince matters—about
twelve o’clock : for after that hour, the
servants told Lina, there was quiet in the
drawing-room. Next, I conjecture, he went
upstairs to change his clothes; he could not
go forth on the world in an evening suit:
and the housemaid says his black coat and
trousers were lying as usual on a chair in his
dressing-room : which shows at least that he
was not unduly flurried. After that, he put
on another suit, no doubt —what suit I hope
the police will not discover too soon : for I
suppose you must just accept the situation
that we are conspiring to defeat the ends of
justice.”

“No, no,” Mrs. Mallet cried. “To bring
him back voluntarily, that he may face his
trial like a man ! ”

“ Yes, dear. That is quite right. How¬
ever, the next thing, of course, would be that
he would shave in whole or in part. His big
black beard was so very conspicuous : he
would certainly get rid of that before attempt¬
ing to escape. The servants being in bed,
he was not pressed for time : he had the
whole night before him. So, of course, he
shaved. On the other hand, the police, you

HE WOULD CERTAINLY GET RID OF THAT.

6 9 8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

may be sure, will circulate his photograph —
we must not shirk these points ”—for Mrs.
Mallet winced again—“will circulate his
photograph, beard and all; and that will
really be one of our great safeguards : for
the bushy beard so masks the face that, with¬
out it, Hugo would be scarcely recognisable.

I conclude, therefore, that he must have
shorn himself before leaving home, though
naturally I did not make the police a present
of the hint by getting Lina to ask any
questions in that direction of the housemaid.”

“You are probably right,” I answered.
“But, would he have a razor ? ”

“ I was coming to that: no : certainly he
would not. He had not shaved for years.
And they kept no men-servants : which makes
it difficult for him to borrow one from a
sleeping man. So what he would do would
doubtless be to cut off his beard, or part of
it, quite close, with a pair of
scissors, and then get himself
properly shaved next morning in
the first country to wn he came to. ”

“The first country town ? ”

“ Certainly. That leads up to
the next point. We must try to
be cool and collected.” She was
quivering with suppressed emo¬
tion herself as she said it, but
her soothing hand still lay on
Mrs. Mallet’s. “ The next thing
is—he would leave London.”

“ But not by rail, you say ?”

“ He is an intelligent man,
and in the course of defending
others has thought about this
matter. Why expose himself to
*the needless risk and observa¬
tion of a railway station? No :

I saw at once what he would
do : beyond doubt, he would
cycle. He always wondered it
was not done oftener under
similar circumstances.”

“ But has his bicycle gone ? ”

“ Lina looked. It has not. I
should have expected as much.

I told her to note that point very
unobtrusively, so as to avoid
giving the police the clue. She
saw the machine in the outer
hall as usual.”

“ He is too good a criminal lawyer to have
dreamt of taking his own,” Mrs. Mallet inter¬
posed, with another effort.

“ But where could he have hired or bought
one at that time of night ? ” I exclaimed.

“ Nowhere—without exciting the gravest

suspicion. Therefore, I conclude, he stopped
in London for the night, sleeping at an hotel,
without luggage, and paying for his room in
advance : it is frequently done, and if he
arrived late, very little notice would be taken
of him. Big hotels about the Strand, I am
told, have always a dozen such casual
bachelor guests every evening.”

“ And then ? ”

“ And then, this morning, he would buy a
new bicycle—a different make from his own,
at the nearest shop ; would rig himself out,
at some ready-made tailor’s, with a _ fresh
tourist suit — probably an ostentatiously
tweedy bicycling suit; and with that in his
luggage carrier, would make straight on his
machine for the country. He could change
in some copse, and bury his own clothes,
avoiding the blunders he has seen in others.
Perhaps he might ride for the first twenty

“he could change in some copse."

or thirty miles out of London to some minor
side-station, and then go on by train towards
his destination, quitting the rail again at
some unimportant point where the main
west road crosses the Great Western or the
South-Western line.”

HILDA WADE.

699

“ Great Western or South-Western ? Why
those two in particular? Then you have
settled in your own mind which direction he
has taken ? ”

“ Pretty well. I judge by analogy. Lina,
your brother was brought up in the West
Country, was he not?”

Mrs. Mallet gave a weary nod. “ In
North Devon,” she answered : “on the wild
stretch of moor about Hartland and
Clovelly.”

Hilda Wade seemed to collect herself.
“ Now, Mr. Le Geyt is essentially a Celt—a
Celt in temperament,” she went on : “ he
comes by origin and ancestry from a rough,
heather-clad country : he belongs to the
moorland. In other words, his type is the
mountaineer’s. But a mountaineer’s instinct
in similar circumstances is—what ? Why, to
fly straight to his native mountains. In an
agony of terror, in an access of despair, when
all else fails, he strikes a bee-line for the hills
he loves : rationally or irrationally, he seems
to think he can hide there. Hugo Le Geyt,
with his frank boyish nature, his great
Devonian frame, is sure to have done so. I
know his mood. He has made for the West
Country ! ”

“ You are right, Hilda,” Mrs. Mallet
exclaimed, with conviction. “ Pm quite sure
from what I know of Hugo that to go to the
west would be his first impulse.”

“And the Le Geyts are always governed
by first impulses,” my character-reader added.

She was quite correct. From the time we
two were at Oxford together—I as an under¬
graduate, he as a don—I had always noticed
that marked trait in my dear old friend’s
temperament.

After a short pause, Hilda broke the
silence again. “ The sea, again ; the sea!
The Le Geyts love the water. Was there
any place on the sea where he went much as
a boy—any lonely place, I mean, in that
North Devon district ? ”

Mrs. Mallet reflected a moment. “Yes,
there was a little bay—a mere gap in high
cliffs, with some fishermen’s huts and a few
yards of beach—where he used to spend
much of his holidays. It was a weird-looking
break in a grim sea-wall of dark-red rocks,
where the tide rose high, rolling in from the
Atlantic.”

“ I he very thing ! Has he visited it since
he grew up ? ”

“ To my knowledge, never.”

Hilda’s voice had a ring of certainty.
“Then that is where we shall find him,
dear ! We must look there first. He is

sure to revisit just such a solitary spot by
the sea when trouble overtakes him.”

Later in the evening, as we were walking
home towards Nathaniel’s together, I asked
Hilda why she had spoken throughout with
such unwavering confidence. “Oh, it was
simple enough,” she answered. “There
were two things that helped me through,
which I didn’t like to mention in detail
before Lina. One was this : the Le Geyts
have all of them an instinctive horror of the
sight of blood : therefore, they almost never
commit suicide by shooting themselves or
cutting their throats. Marcus, who shot
himself in the gun-room, was an exception
to both rules : he never minded blood : he
could cut up a deer. But Hugo refused to
be a doctor, because he could not stand the
sight of an operation : and even, as a sports¬
man, he never liked to pick up or handle
the game he had shot himself: he said it
sickened him. He rushed from that room
last night, I feel sure, in a physical horror
at the deed he had done : and by now
he is as far as he can get from London.
The sight of his act drove him away,
not craven fear of an arrest. If the
Le Geyts kill themselves — a seafaring
race on the whole — their impulse is — to
trust to water.”

“And the other thing ? ”

“Well, that was about the mountaineer’s
homing instinct. I have often noticed it. I
could give you fifty instances, only I didn’t
like to speak of them before Lina. There
was Williams, for example, the Dolgelly man
who killed a gamekeeper at Petworth in a
poaching affray: he was taken on Cader
Idris, skulking among rocks, a week later.
Then there was that unhappy young fellow
Mackinnon, who shot his sweetheart at
Leicester: he made, straight as the crow
flies, for his home in the Isle of Skye, and
there drowned himself in familiar waters.
Lindner, the Tyrolese, again, who stabbed
the American swindler at Monte Carlo, was
tracked after a few days to his native place,
St. Valentin in the Zillerthal. It is always
so. Mountaineers in distress fly to their
mountains. It is a part of their nostalgia. I
know it from within, too : if I were in poor
Hugo Le Geyt’s place, what do you think I
would do ? —why, hide myself at once in the
greenest recesses of our Carnarvonshire
mountains.”

“ What an extraordinary insight into
character you have ! ” I cried. “You seem
to divine what everybody’s action will be
under given circumstances.”

700

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

She paused and held her parasol half
poised in her hand. “ Character determines
action/’ she said, slowly at last. “ That is
the secret of the great novelists. They
put themselves behind and within their

She herself proposed to set out quietly for
Bideford, where she would be within easy
reach of me, in order to hear of my success
or failure; while Hilda Wade, whose summer
vacation was to have begun in two days’

characters, and so make us feel that every
act of their personages is not only natural
but even, given the conditions, inevitable.
We recognise that their story is the sole
logical outcome of the interaction of their
dramatis persona. Now, / am not a great
novelist : I cannot create and imagine
characters and situations. But I have some¬
thing of the novelist’s gift : I apply the same
method to the real life of the people around
me. I try to throw myself into the person
of others, and to feel how their character will
compel them to act in each set of circum¬
stances to which they may expose themselves.”

“ In one word,” I said, “ you are a
psychologist.”

“ A psychologist,” she assented: “I
suppose so : and the police — well, the police
are not : they are at best but bungling
materialists. They require a clue. What
need of a clue if you can interpret character ? ”

So certain was Hilda Wade of her con¬
clusions, indeed, that Mrs. Mallet begged me
next day to take my holiday at once—which
I could easily do—and go down to the little
bay in the Hartland district of which she
had spoken, in search of Hugo. I consented.

time, offered to ask for an extra day’s leave
so as to accompany her. The broken-hearted
sister accepted the offer : and, secrecy being
above all things necessary, we set off by
different routes : the two women by Waterloo,
myself by Paddington.

We stopped that night at different hotels
in Bideford; but next morning, Hilda rode
out on her bicycle, and accompanied me on
mine for a mile or two along the tortuous
way towards Hartland. “ Take nothing for
granted,” she said, as we parted; “and be
prepared to find poor Hugo Le Geyt’s
appearance greatly changed. He has eluded
the police and their 1 clues ’ so far; therefore,
I imagine he must have largely altered his
dress and exterior.”

“I will find him,” I answered, “if he is
anywhere within twenty miles of Hartland.”

She waved her hand to me in farewell. I
rode on after she left me towards the high
promontory in front, the wildest and least-
visited part of North Devon. I orrents of
rain had fallen during the night: the slimy
cart-ruts and cattle-tracks on the moor were
brimming with water. It was a lowering
day. The clouds drifted low. Black peat-

HILDA WADE.

701

bogs filled the hollows: grey stone home¬
steads, lonely and forbidding, stood out here
and there against the curved sky-line. Even
the high road was uneven, and in places
flooded. For an hour I passed hardly a
soul : at last, near a cross-road, with a
defaced finger-post, I descended from my
machine and consulted my ordnance map,

‘ I CONSULTED MY ORDNANCE MAP.”

on which Mrs. Mallet had marked ominously,
with a cross of red ink, the exact position of
the little fishing hamlet where Hugo used to
spend his holidays. I took the turning
which seemed to me most likely to lead to
it : but the tracks were so confused and the
run of the lanes so uncertain—let alone the
map being some years out of date—that I
soon felt I had lost my bearings. By a little
wayside inn, half hidden in a deep combe,
with bog on every side, I descended and
asked for a bottle of ginger-beer; for the
day was hot and close, in spite of the packed
clouds. As they were opening the bottle, I
inquired casually the way to the Red Gap
bathing-place.

The landlord gave me directions which

confused me worse than ever, ending at last
with the concise remark, “ An’ then, zur, two
or dree more turns to the right an’ to the
left ’ull bring ’ee right up alongzide o’ ut.”

I despaired of finding the way by these
unintelligible sailing-orders : but just at that
moment, as luck would have it, another
cyclist flew past—the first soul I had seen on
the road that morning. He was a man with the
loose-knit air of a shop-assistant, badly got up
in a rather loud and obtrusive tourist suit of
brown homespun, with baggy
knickerbockers and thin thread
stockings. I judged him a gentle¬
man on the cheap at sight :
“ Very Stylish ; this Suit Com¬
plete, only thirty-seven and six¬
pence ! ” The landlady glanced
out at him with a friendly nod.
He turned and smiled at her, but
did not see me : for I stood in
the shade behind the half-open
door. He had a short, black
moustache, and a not unpleasing,
careless face. His features, I
thought, were better than his
garments.

However, the stranger did not
interest me just then : I was far
too full of more important matters.
“ Why don’t ’ee taake an’ vollow
thik ther gen’leman, zur ? ” the
landlady said, pointing one large
red hand after him. “ Ur do go
down to Urd Gap to zwim every
marnin’. Mr. Jan Smith, o’ Ox¬
ford, they do call un. ’Ee can’t
go wrong if ’ee do vollow un to
Ur’s lodgin’ up to wold Varmer
Moore’s, an’ ur’s that vond o’ the zay, the
vishermen do tell me, as wasn’t never any
gen’leman like un.”

I tossed off my ginger-beer, jumped on to
my machine, and followed the retreating
brown back of Mr. John Smith, of Oxford
—surely a most non-committing nanle—
round sharp corners and over rutty lanes,
tyre-deep in mud, across the rusty-red moor,
till, all at once at a turn, a gap of stormy sea
appeared wedge-shape between two shelving
rock-walls.

It was a lonely spot. Rocks hemmed
it in: big breakers walled it. The sou’¬
wester roared through the gap. I rode down
among loose stones and water-worn channels
in the solid grit very carefully. But the man
in brown had torn over the wild path with
reckless haste, zig-zagging madly, and was
now on the little three-cornered patch of

the Gap.

7 02

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

HE FLUNG OUT HIS ARMS.”

beach, undressing himself with a sort of care¬
less glee, and flinging his clothes down
anyhow on the shingle beside him. Some¬
thing about the action caught my eye. That
movement of the arm ! It was not—it could
not be—no, no, not Hugo !

A very ordinary person : and Le Geyt bore
the stamp of a born gentleman.

He stood up bare at last. He flung out
his arms as if to welcome the boisterous
wind to his naked bosom. Then, with a
sudden burst of recognition, the man stood
revealed. We had bathed together a
hundred times in London and elsewhere.
The face, the clad figure, the dress, all were

cork : but like a cork he rose again. He was
swimming now, arm over arm, straight out
seaward. I saw the lifted hands between
the crest and the trough. For a moment I
hesitated whether I ought to strip and follow
him. Was he doing as so many other of his
house had done—courting death from the
water ?

But some strange hand restrained me.
Who was I that I should stand between
Hugo Le Geyt and the ways of Providence ?

different. But the body—the actual frame
and make of the man—the well-knit limbs,
the splendid trunk—no disguise could alter.
It was Le Geyt himself — big, powerful,
vigorous.

That ill-made suit, those baggy knicker¬
bockers, the slouched cap, the thin thread
stockings, had only distorted and hidden his
figure : now that I saw him as he was, he came
out the same bold and manly form as ever.

He did not notice me. He rushed down
with a certain wild joy into the turbulent
water, and plunging in with a loud cry.
buffeted the huge waves with those strong
curving arms of his. The sou’-wester was
rising. Each breaker as it reared caught
him on its crest and tumbled him over like a

The Le Geyts loved ever the ordeal by
water.

Presently, he turned again. Before he
turned, I had taken the opportunity to look
hastily at his clothes. Hilda Wade had sur¬
mised aright once more. The outer suit was
a cheap affair from a big ready-made tailor’s
in St. Martin’s Lane—turned out by the
thousand : the underclothing, on the other
hand, was new and unmarked, but flne in
quality—bought, no doubt, at Bideford. An
eerie sense of doom stole over me. I felt
the end was near. I withdrew behind a big
rock, and waited there unseen till Hugo had
landed. Pie began to dress again, without
troubling to dry himself. I drew a deep
breath of relief. Then this was not suicide !

HILDA JVADE.

7°3

By the time he had pulled on his vest and
drawers, I came out suddenly from my
ambush and faced him. A fresh shock
awaited me. I could hardly believe my

defence—the plausibility of the explanation
—the whole long story. He gazed at me
moodily. Yet it was not Hugo !

“No, no,” he said, shortly; and as he

“the man rose with a little cry and advanced.'*

eyes. It was ^not Le Geyt—no, nor anything
like him !

Nevertheless, the man rose with a little
cry and advanced, half crouching, towards
me. “ You are not hunting me down—with
the police ? ” he exclaimed, his neck held
low and his forehead wrinkling.

The voice—the voice was Le Geyt’s. It
was an unspeakable mystery. “ Hugo,” I
cried, “dear Hugo—hunting you down?—
could you imagine it ? ”

He raised his head, strode forward, and
grasped my hand. “ Forgive me, Cumber-
ledge,” he cried. “ But a proscribed and
hounded man ! If you knew what a relief
it is to me to get out on the water! ”

“ You forget all there ? ”

“ I forget IT—the red horror ! ”

“You meant just now to drown yourself?”
“ No ! If I had meant it I would have
done it. . . . Hubert, for my children’s sake,
I will not commit suicide ! ”

“Then listen !” I cried. I told him in a
few words his sister’s scheme—Sebastian’s

spoke it was he. “ I have done it; I have
killed her; I will not owe my life to a
falsehood.”

“ Not for the children’s sake ? ”

He dashed his hand down impatiently.
“ I have a better way for the children. I
will save them still. . . . Hubert, you are
not afraid to speak to a murderer ? ”

“ Dear Hugo—I know all: and to know
all is to forgive all.”

He grasped my hand once more. “ Know
all!” he cried, with a despairing gesture.
“ Oh, no : no one knows all but myself: not
even the children. But the children know
much : they will forgive me. Lina knows
something : she will forgive me. You know
a little: you forgive me. The world can
never know. It will brand my darlings as a
murderer’s children.”

“It was the act of a minute,” I interposed.
“And—though she is dead, poor lady, and
one must speak no ill of her—we can at
least gather dimly, for your children’s sake,
how deep was the provocation.”

704

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

He gazed at me fixedly. His voice was like
lead. “ For the children’s sake—yes,” he
answered, as in a dream. “It was all for
the children ! I have killed her—murdered
her—she has paid her penalty ; and, poor
dead soul, I will utter no word against her—
the woman I have murdered ! But one
thing I will say : If omniscient justice sends
me for this to eternal punishment, I can
endure it gladly, like a man, knowing that
so I have redeemed my Marian’s motherless
girls from a deadly tyranny.”

It was the only sentence in which he ever
alluded to her.

I sat down by his side and watched him
close. Mechanically, methodically, he went
on with his dressing. The more he dressed,
the less could I believe it was Hugo. I had
expected to find him close-shaven : so did
the >police, by their printed notices. In¬
stead of that, he had shaved his beard and
whiskers, but only trimmed his moustache,
trimmed it quite short, so as to reveal the
boyish corners of the mouth—a trick which
entirely altered his rugged expression. But
that was not all : what puzzled me most was
the eyes—they were not Hugo’s. At first I
could not imagine why: by degrees, the
truth dawned upon me. His eyebrows were
naturally thick and shaggy—great overhang¬
ing growth, interspersed with many of those
stiff long hairs to which Darwin called atten¬
tion in certain men as surviving traits from a
monkey-like ancestor. In order to disguise
himself, Hugo had pulled out all these coarser
hairs, leaving nothing on his .brows but the
soft and closely-pressed .coat of down which
underlies the longer bristles in all such cases.
This had wholly altered the expression of the
eyes, which ho longer looked out keenly from
their cavernous penthouse, but being deprived
of their relief, had acquired a much more
ordinary and less individual aspect. From a
good-natured but shaggy giant my old friend
was transformed by his shaving and his
costume into a well-fed and well-grown, but not
very colossal,' commercial gentleman. Hugo
was scarcely six feet high, indeed, though
by his broad shoulders and bushy beard he
had always impressed one with such a sense
of size: and now that the hirsuteness had
been got rid of, and the dress altered, he
hardly struck one as taller or bigger than the
average of his fellows.

We sat for some minutes and talked. Le
Geyt would not speak of Clara : and when I
asked him his intentions, he shook his head
moodily. “ I shall act for the best,” he
said—“ what of best is left—to guard the

dear children. It was a terrible price to pay
for their redemption ; but it was the only one
possible : and, in a moment of wrath, I paid
it. Now, I have to pay, in turn, myself. I
do not shirk it.”

“You will come back to London, then,
and stand your trial ? ” I asked, eagerly.

“ Come back to London ? ” he cried, with
a face of white panic. Hitherto he had
seemed to me rather relieved in expression
than otherwise : his countenance had lost its
worn and anxious look : he was no longer
watching each moment over his children’s
safety. “ Come back ... to Londo?i ....
and face my trial! Why, did you think,
Hubert, ’twas the court or the hanging I was
shirking ? No, no, not that; but IT—the
red horror ! I must get away from it to the
sea—to the water- -to wash away the stain—
as far from it —that red pool—as possible ! ”

I answered nothing. I left him to face his
own remorse in silence.

At last he rose to go, and held one foot
undecided on his bicycle.

“ I leave myself in Heaven’s hands,” he
said, as he lingered. “ It will requite ....
The ordeal is by water.”

“ So I judged,” I answered.

“Tell Lina this from me,” he went on,
still loitering: “ that if she will trust me, I
will strive to do the best that remains for my
darlings. I will do it, Heaven helping. She
will know what , to-morrow.”

He mounted his machine and sailed off.
My eyes followed him up the path with sad
forebodings.

All day long I loitered about the Gap. It
consisted of two bays—the one I had
already seen, and another, divided from it by
a saw-edge of rock. In the further cove
crouched a few low, stone cottages. A
broad-bottomed sailing-boat lay there, pulled
up high on the beach. About three o’clock,
as I sat and watched, two men began to
launch it. The sea ran high : tide coming
in : the sou’-wester still increasing in force to
a gale : at the signal-staff on the cliff, the
danger-cone hoisted. White spray danced in
air. Big black clouds rolled up seething
from windward : low thunder rumbling : a
storm threatened.

One of the men was Le Geyt: the other, a
fisherman.

He jumped in and put off through the
surf with an air of triumph. He was a
splendid sailor. His boat leapt through the
breakers and flew before the wind with a
mere rag of canvas. “Dangerous weather
to be out ! ” I exclaimed to the fisherman,

HILDA WADE.

705

who stood with hands buried in his pockets,
watching him.

“ Ay, that ur be, zur ! ” the man answered.
“ Doan’t like the look o’ ut. But thik there
gen’elman, ’e’s one o’ Oxford, ’e do tell me :
and they ’m a main venturesome lot, they
college volk. ’E’s off by ’isself droo the
starm, all so var as Lundy ! ”

u VVill he reach it?” I asked, anxiously,
having my own idea on the subject.

“ Doan’t seem like ut, zur, do ut ? Ur
must, an’ ur mustn’t, an’ yit again ur must.
Powerful ’ard place ur be to maake in a
starm, to be zure, Lundy. Zaid the Lord
’ould dezide. But ur ’ouldn’t be warned, ur
’ouldn’t; an’ voolhardy volk, as the zayin’ is,
must go their own voohardy waay to perdi¬
tion ! ”

It was the last I saw of Le Geyt alive.
Next morning the lifeless body of “the man
who was wanted for the Campden Hill
mystery” was cast up .by the waves on the
shore of Lundy. The Lord had decided.

missive verdict of “ Death by misadven¬
ture.” The coroner thought it a most proper
finding. Mrs. Mallet had made the most of
the innate Le Geyt horror of blood : the
newspapers charitably surmised that the un-
happy husband, crazed by the instantaneous
unexpectedness of his loss, had wandered away
like a madman to the scenes of his childhood,
and had there been drowned by accident
while trying to cross a stormy sea to Lundy,
under some wild impression that he would
find his dead wife alive on the island. No¬
body whispered murder. Everybody dwelt
on the utter absence of motive—a model
husband !—such a charming young wife and
such a devoted stepmother. We three alone
knew—we three, and the children.

On the day when the jury brought in their
verdict at the adjourned inquest on Mrs.
Le Geyt, Hilda Wade stood in the room
trembling and white-faced, awaiting their
decision. When the foreman uttered the
words, “ Death by misadventure,” she burst

Hugo had not miscalculated. “Luck in
their suicides,” Hilda Wade said: and,
strange to say, the luck of the Le Geyts
stood him in good stead still. By a miracle
of fate, his children were not branded as
a murderer’s daughters. Sebastian gave
evidence at the inquest on the wife’s body:
“self-inflicted—a recoil—accidental- I am
sure of it.” His specialist knowledge—his
assertive certainty, combined with that
arrogant, masterful manner of his, and his
keen, eagle eye, overbore the jury. Awed by
the great man’s look, they brought in a sub-

into tears of relief. “ He did well! ” she
cried to me, passionately. “ He did well,
that poor father! He placed his life in the
hands of his Maker, asking only for mercy
to his innocent children. And mercy has
been shown to him, and to them. He was
taken gently in the way he wished. It tvould
have broken my heart for those two poor
girls if the verdict had gone otherwise. He
knew how terrible a lot it is to be called a
murderer’s daughter.”

I did not realize at the time with what
profound depth of personal feeling she said it.

Vol. xvii.—89

Rearing a Derby Winner.

HE great race of 1899, that
which makes the little town of
Epsom the centre of attrac¬
tion from one end of the world
to the other for a short time in
the year, by the time these
lines appear in print will have joined hands
with the one hundred and nineteen Derbys
that have gone before. It is perfectly safe
to say that, wherever Englishmen congregate,
there the Derby and the candidates for the
“ Blue Ribbon of the Turf” have been
amongst the chief items of discussion.
Indeed, such an interest is taken in the result
of the premier classic race, that within an hour
of its finish the result is known throughout the
four quarters of the globe.

The inception of the first Derby is an oft-
told tale, so that nothing more shall be said
here about it beyond that it was run on
Thursday, May 4th, 1780, and was won by
Diomed for Sir Charles Bunbury. Of its
history much might be written, whilst many
stories of old - time trainers and jockeys
might be told; but, interesting though it
would be to trace the history and tell the
tales, it is apart from the purpose of this

article to do so. Rather is it our desire to
record by pen and picture the progress of the
racehorse from his dam’s side, through his
early youth, until his proud owner leads
him in the honoured winner of the “ Blue
Ribbon of the Turf” on the eventful Wed¬
nesday afternoon which shall send down
his name to posterity.

We will first take a stroll round the stud-
paddock, where the friendly breeder has told
us his favourite foal can be seen. There he
is by his dam’s side, with disproportionately
long legs and big head, to all appearance as
unlikely as possible to develop into a shapely
three-year-old fit to run in and win the Derby.
But an observant and capable critic sees
many promising points that either escape the
layman’s attention or of which he is ignorant.
The professional is certain, not only from his
knowledge of the colt’s parents, but from a
sight of the youngster himself, that his career
is not likely to end ingloriously, and is loud
in his praises of the promising youngster.
Here it may be well to mention that the
age of a colt is reckoned from the first of
January; thus, if he is born in December
he becomes a yearling in the following

From a Fhoto. by]

EARLY DAYS.

[ W. a. liouch.

REARING A DERBY WINNER.

707

month. For this reason breeders prefer that
their foals should be born early in the year
rather than towards its close. Various
opinions are held as to the best month, but
to take the view of the majority, late Febru¬
ary or early March is reckoned the best time.
The importance of the date of the foal’s
birth will be realized when it is explained
that if he is obliged to compete with a horse
who is both nominally and actually two years
old, when he himself is little more than twelve
months of age—although nominally a two-
year-old—there is little chance of success
attending, at any rate, his early career.

After leaving his dam’s side the youngster
generally goes to the great September
sales, where he is handled and criticised
from every standpoint. As in the stud-
paddock, so in the sale-ring his points and

pedigree are discussed at length, and as Mr.
Tattersall encourages the bidders, heads
keep nodding until the brown colt by Jew’s
Harp out of Accordion is knocked down at a
heavy figure to one who hopes both to recoup
himself and to have the honour of leading
in a Derby winner. Just about now the
serious work of the thoroughbred usually has
commenced. Some breeders of stock believe
in beginning the preliminary education of
the young horse earlier than this, but on the
whole it is after the sale that the real schooling
of the future would-be winner of the Derby
commences. As with human beings, so with
horses — and for that matter all animals—the
effect of good or bad education is never
eradicated. The fault most frequently found
with racehorses is that they are disposed to
be bad-tempered. Without allowing this for

BREAKING IN THE YEARLING.

[IF. A. Rouch.

708

TEE STRAND MAGAZINE.

From a) in the trainer’s string. [ Pliotogruiih

a moment, it can be emphatically stated
that bad-tempered horses are seldom born,
but often made by wrong treatment and
careless breaking.

One of the first and most important of the
horse’s early lessons, after being shod and
handled in the stable, is to learn to bear the
bit. From this he proceeds to more active
schooling, and has breaking tackle put on him,
in which he is led about daily and “ lunged ”
on a specially-selected soft piece of ground.
This exercise removes much of the super¬
fluous fat which has accumulated during the
colt’s lazy foal life. The next step is to
accustom the youngster to the weight of a
saddle. From this the pupil goes on to learn
that he must bear the weight of a rider, who
generally takes his first mount inside the
stable. When the yearling gets used to a
moving body on his back, he is led out into
the yard or paddock and made to follow with
others behind a steady old horse. This he
will in most cases readily do, although some¬
times lengthy trouble ensues; but firmness is
exercised until it is fully understood that the
rider is master. The initial training of the
young racehorse is now nearly complete, for
he speedily begins to understand what is
required of him, and soon learns to walk, trot,
or canter as may be desired.

From now his day’s work begins to lengthen
out, till from two to three hours are given to
walking and trotting exercise, with perhaps a
few short canters interspersed. These are
gradually extended, until half a mile can be
covered easily. Then the youngster joins the

main string, is schooled by an older horse, and
may be said to be thoroughly “ in training.”
His gallops are made faster, and he is
sent for spins with tried horses, until the
trainer is able to judge with fair accuracy
whether the name of the aspirant is likely to
be added to the “ deed-roll of fame.” If
there is promise of future greatness the colt’s
career is watched with anxious interest by
the man in whose care he has been placed.
With much truth has it been written, “ Uneasy
lies the head that wears a trainer’s crown.”
Sleepless nights are frequently his lot. While
he sits on his hack, as the string gallop past,
watching the future Derby candidate, mis¬
givings often arise. Perhaps suspicions
have been aroused as to the sound¬
ness of his charge. Possibly his employer
has been over-critical, whilst the Press—
that hungry monster which swallows and
enlarges every item of news—has insinuated
that his methods are not altogether above¬
board.

The first day of the New Year draws near,
and at its birth the yearling becomes a two-
year-old, and before many months have
passed will make his first appearance on a
racecourse. This is possibly at Ascot in
June, but the form shown then and in the
Middle Park Plate in October does not
always truly forecast the future. It is as a
three-year-old at the Newmarket First Spring
Meeting in the Two Thousand Guineas that
a more correct estimate can be made of the
comparative merits of the future candidates
for the Derby.

REARING A DERBY WINNER.

Should the horse, whose history we are
tracing, either pass the post first or show
signs of speed, he is narrowly watched on the
training ground, and gallops and trials are
regularly reported in the sporting Press.
Frequently this is just what the owner and
trainer wish kept dark, and different schemes
are devised to thwart the inquisitive tout.
An amusing story is told of a prominent
trainer, whose secrets from some source or
another were con¬
tinually leaking out.

Suspecting a cer¬
tain stable-lad, he
let drop in the
lad’s hearing that
the horse whose
performances he
wished to keep to
himself would be
tried against a cer¬
tain other horse at
an early hour next
morning. As the
trainer surmised,
this information
was duly conveyed
to the right quarter.

But the trap was
set. In the early
morning, before
the named hour,
another horse,
whose legs had
been whitened to
resemble the stock¬

709

inged legs of the
Derby candidate,
was sent to the
arranged spot, and
gave the watching
tout an altogether
wrong idea of the
Derby candidate’s
powers. Whilst this
was going on, the
true trial was taking
place elsewhere.
Needless to say, the
result of this trial
was unknown to
the tout, and the
trainer lost a stable-
lad.

But the eventful
Wednesday draws
near, and the
owner’s and train¬
er’s anxieties are
gathered into a focus. The morning breaks,
and the course is lined with a condensed,
excited, and moving mass.. The fateful hour
is close at hand. Most of the candidates are
in the paddock being saddled, and are,
naturally, undergoing considerable criticism.
As each is stripped the beautiful, shapely form
shows up to perfection. The number-board
indicates the runners, and then comes the
preliminary parade. As the field parades

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

710

From «]

GOING TO THE TOST FOR THE DERBY.

past the stands and then canters to the post
the eyes of all centre, first upon some par¬
ticular favourite, and then move from one to
another of the others. All the vast multitude
is at a tension of excitement. The only cool
and undisturbed persons present are the gaily-
clad jockeys, whose looks of unconcern at
such a supreme moment are to be envied.

much vexatious delay, the advance flagman
signals a proper start, and “ They’re off ! ” is
the cry, but not all exactly in line, though
the ground so lost is speedily made good.

The great struggle has commenced. First
one takes up the running, then another; but
as the horses pass the City and Suburban
starting-post the second favourite forges

brom a]

GETTING IN LINE FOR THE START.

The post is reached at last, and the starter
has his field at command—nearly. First one
fidgety and almost unmanageable candidate
will break away, then another, startled at a
sudden noise, will leave the line. But, after

ahead, only to be challenged. He meets the
effort bravely, and before entering the furzes
proves himself capable of keeping at the head
of affairs for the time, although only a bare
gap separates him from another competitor

REARING A DERBY WINNER.

711

From a\

L Photograph.

who has gradually crept nearer. At the mile
post more than one has closed up, and there
are now several in a bunch. At the top of the
hill the leader has to give way, but in turn, at
the descent, his successor is displaced, and
half-way down the chestnut recovers his
position. Tattenham Corner is rounded in a
very short while, and then again there is an
alteration in the. order of running. A quarter
of a mile from home several of the candidates
seem to be in hopeless difficulty, and the issue
resolves itself into a match between the first
and second favourites. With rare patience the
jockey of the former has waited his opportu¬

nity. Inside the distance he sets his steed
going in dead earnest, and a hundred yards
from home obtains a real advantage over the
chestnut, whose speed is almost exhausted,
which is maintained until the finish, when he
passes the judge’s box a couple of lengths to
the good. Shout after shout goes up, hats
are thrown in the air, joy at the result is in
the face of many, whilst disgust shows itself
in others.

Meanwhile the proud, fortunate, and envied
owner, who with the trainer has gone to meet
his successful jockey, leads in the winner of
the coveted “ Blue Ribbon ” amidst the ac-

Fran a]

POUND TATTENHAM CORNER.

712

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

From a Photo, by]

THE FINISH OF THE DERBY.

[TF. A. Roucli.

clamations and congratulations of a host of
friends and well-wishers.

The weighing - in in closure is speedily
reached, and the hero of the hour is
unsaddled. The weight of his rider with
the saddle is checked by the clerk of

the scales, who announces the expected—
but none the less welcome—information that
everything is in order, and the names of the
winner, his owner, and jockey go to swell the
long list of those who have won the Derby
and immortal fame at the same moment.

From u Photo, by]

(.EApING IN THE WINNER,

I IF. A. Roach,

Wanted—a Bicycle.

By Bernard Capes.

AD Mr. John Tremills dared
to express an independent
opinion upon anything in the
wide world, rational dress for
women would have been its
motif. To all ordinary social
questions he was a sensitive plant—a very
mimosa of retiredness. He would subscribe
to any fashion or condition the most abhor¬
rent to his instincts, rather than run the risk
of being cross-examined as to his objections.
Thus, like all shy men, he was seldom true
to himself; and, thus coerced by timidity, he
was often driven to play a part, like a weep¬
ing monkey on an organ.

But he had one firm moral line of demar¬
cation; and that was “rational dress.” On
this subject he could wax fluent and self-
assertive, even until he would come to picture
himself a very unassailable champion of the
rights of man—a cause usually overcrowded
by that of the wrongs of women.

“ What is all this pother ? ” he would, for
instance, cry to some intimate friend after
fish and the second glass of sherry. “ Skirts
are the prerogative of women, not on any
grounds of morality, but because for the
most part women have knock-knees.”

Mr. John Tremills favoured few of those
higher exercises his independent position
might permit him. He was neither “ sport¬
ing ” nor sportive; but he rode a pneumatic
tyre, and did it well, too.

He lived in a low, embowered, old-
fashioned house on Streatham Common, and
thence it was a common custom-with him. to
make long excursions by road to places of
interest near or far, as whim suggested.
Sometimes he would be away for a da.y or
two at a time; and such trips he was in the
habit of alluding to as holiday ones—as if
his life were not all one extended holiday.
But wealth salves its conscience with many
such little misapplications of terms.

Now, one October afternoon Mr. Tremills
was journeying homewards from Dorking,
the glow of memory reflecting upon his face
a certain smug happiness resulting from a
convivial evening spent at the White Horse
Inn in that town.

He had chanced to meet a most agreeable

Vol. xvii.—90.

companion at the coffee-room dinner table;
and had slid into converse with him on a
variety of subjects, the most enthralling of
which had undoubtedly been rational dress
for women. On this the stranger had had
much to say, and to say after a rather tem¬
pestuous fashion.

“ Hang the women ! ” he had remarked
(he went as far as that). “ Rational dress
for a sex that doesn’t understand reason !
Great Scot ! She prides herself upon her
intuition. It’ll all go with trousers—a house
divided against itself. If she jumps to con¬
clusions, she’ll come a cropper. But I don’t
believe in the movement. It’s a mere fashion.
She’s just riding a hobby-horse for the time—
that’s it, and virtually the skirt’s over her legs
still, and will ever be, for all the dummy
shanks set astride of the saddle.”

This was not polite, but it pleased Mr.
Tremills, who felt very strongly in the
matter. So he made up in his shy way to
the stranger, and, later in the evening, lost
fifteen shillings to him at billiards.

He would have liked to resume the con¬
versation with him the next morning; but—
so it appeared—he had already departed,
and without paying his bill—an item of in¬
formation retailed by the waitress which was
like a cold douche to the sensitive gentleman.

“Bless you, sir,” said the girl, “the
fairer-spoke such rubbish is, the better to be
on one’s guard. We experience a many of
them gentry in the inn business, and I never
knew one of them but could have wheedled
a lord justice out of his wig.”

There seemed an allusion so pointed in
this to his own timid credulity, that Mr.
Tremills dropped the subject and ordered
cold chicken and an omelette.

But, later in the day, on his journey home¬
wards, the humour of the experience struck
him, and he laughed to think how he had
subscribed on moral grounds to the opinions
of a swindler.

On a lonely stretch of road he was carol¬
ling in pure lightness of heart, when he
became aware, with a bashful shock, that he
had sped past a seated female figure, so
hidden in the long grass and growth of the
roadside that he had not observed until close
upon it.

714

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

HE WAS CAROLLING IN PURE
LIGHTNESS OF HEART.”

Tinglingly conscious that his voice had
risen at the moment into a jubilant caricature
of itself—at the best a particularly tuneless
organ—he was putting on speed to run from
the embarrassment, when he was informed
by a faint cry behind him that someone was
hailing him to stop.

He slowed, looked round, and swung him¬
self from his machine. It was the very
figure he had passed that now stood up and
beckoned to him with imploring action, it
seemed, though full fifty yards separated
them.

What should he do ? He had all the
instincts of knight errantry but self-confidence;
and, lacking that, to what compromising
situations might he not commit himself?
Perhaps this was a sort of Lamia, who made
it her business to waylay travellers with the
ultimate object of blackmailing them.
Perhaps she was a decoy, and had con¬
federates hidden behind the hedge.

He stood still where he had alighted.
The figure beckoned to him again—this time
imperiously, he could see.

He bethought himself that at any rate he
had his bicycle, and could flee at a moment’s
notice. He started slowly walking towards
the figure ; and at that it came out into the
road and moved towards him.

Great heavens ! What did he see? The
creature was in rational bicycling dress !

He paused, and his brow went into one
line of indignation. Also, his face fell very
grave and rigid.

But when at last the figure approached
him near enougt# for criticism, it * gave him
some embarrassed concern, in the midst of
his wrath, to notice that it was that of a pale

young woman, who
had evidently been
violently crying.

She came slowly
up to him, rubbing
her wet eyes with
a handkerchief, and
he suffered some
amelioration of con¬
tempt upon observ¬
ing that she was a
very well-formed
young person in¬
deed, and that her
knees — so far as
they were outlined—
were straight and a reasonable distance apart.

Pie caught himself away sharply, however,
from this little sentimental concession; and
only bowed stiffly and waited for her to
speak.

This she seemed to find some difficulty in
doing : whether from a discomfortable con¬
viction that, judged apart from her bicycle—
which was nowhere in evidence—she was an
incongruous apparition, a sort of dea ex
machina —neither fish, flesh, nor good red
herring; or that she yet swam in the back¬
water of tears, must be uncertain. But it
remains to add that in the short interval of
silence Mr. Tremills discovered himself
wondering what was so essentially opposed
to decency in a Zouave jacket—really a
becoming garment in itself—in an Astrakhan
cap, with a dainty quill stuck in its side, and
in roomy pantaloons of a sombre hue.

He dared not look lower : it seemed taking
ungentlemanly advantage of an accidental
situation; but he straightened himself once
more and coughed—and then'the apparition
spoke.

“ I thought you would hurry when I
called,” she said, in a voice a little fretful but
remarkably melodious.

“ I came-” he was beginning, surprised ;

but she took him up at the word.

“ You didn’t. If you had, you might have
caught him by now.”

Evidently this was a young woman accus¬
tomed to dictate.

“ I really didn’t know what you wanted,”
said Mr. Tremills, lamely.

“ Naturally,” she replied, “ unless you are
a te—tedium or me—medium, or whatever
the thing’s called-” ; and, to his conster¬

nation, she showed signs of crying again.

“ Don't do that,” he said, in great trepida¬
tion. “ Please to tell me what’s the matter.”

Pie was interested in spite of himself.

WANTED—A BICYCLE.

715

There was a bloom on the young lady’s
cheeks, as if they had been rubbed with
scarlet geranium petals, and there was un¬
doubtedly something gratifying in being thus
taken into the confidence, as it were, of so
pathetic and engaging a stranger.

“ I was resting by the roadside,” she said,
in a voice with an occasional moving catch
in it, “ when a man came along and rode off
on my machine.”

“Your machine?”

“ He did, indeed ; and a very presentable
and good-looking young man, too. He just
mounted it and rode off. I called and
shrieked, but it was no good; and he got
clear away. It was not a minute before you
came up, and if you had hurried at once you
might have caught him.”

“ But, my dear madam-”

“It wasn’t kind of you, was it? And I
have lost my bicycle in consequence.”

“ How could I possibly guess the cause of
your trouble ? ”

“I didn’t want you to guess. Is any
appeal from a woman in distress a riddle to
you ? ”

It was on the tip of Mr. Tremill’s tongue
to retort with “ from a woman in trousers,
you mean,” but he had no heart for the
sarcasm, even mentally; for he felt himself
at once to be a timorous nincompoop with¬
out the excuse of a skirt.

“I am very sorry,” he said, humbly, with¬
out further attempt to justify his laxity. “ I
will go now,” and he actually made as if to
remount his machine.

“ Do you mean to go away and leave me
to my fate ? ” said the pretty bloomer.

“Only to chase the thief,” said Mr.
Tremills.

“That is absurd, of course. You can’t
catch him now, possibly. He has twenty
minutes’ start of you.”

“ But you said-”

“ Oh, please don’t quote me against
myself. It’s natural to be wrong a minute or
two when one is agitated. Besides, do you
suppose he would have dared to venture it
if he hadn’t been an expert rider ? ”

“ Well, I am a fair one, if I may say
so.”

He tingled with a shame-faced pleasure in
prolonging the conversation, particularly as
every moment lost lessened the chance of
his being bidden to the pursuit, for which,
indeed, he had small stomach. Commis¬
erating the beautiful distressed was one
thing; tackling a bloodthirsty rogue on her
behalf, quite another.

Suddenly she backed from him, and fell
to the most pathetic whimpering.

“ Oh, what shall I do ? ” she moaned; “I
can’t walk the rest of the distance in this
dress, and there isn’t a station near.”

Mr. Tremills hardened perceptibly.

“ If you can ride in that dress,” he said,
grimly, “ why can’t you walk in it ? ”

“ Oh ! I should die of shame,” she said.

He accepted this, for his conscience, as
a compromise. Certainly, the girl was as
pretty as a carnation, with just that whole¬
some touch of olive in her complexion which
the sun works on a fair skin—like the
heavenly salamander he is.

“ Can I—can I be of any assistance ? ”
he said, “ in seeing you safely to your
destination ? ”

“ I live at Streatham,” she answered, look¬
ing up with a pained brow.

Mr. Tremills glowed. Was an impish
fate taking up the single strand of his
destiny, and beginning to interweave it rogu¬
ishly with another ? The thought first
frightened then exalted him. He had
never seen any face quite so expressive as
this one.

“ ‘ Sweetest eyes, how sweet in flowings ! ’ ”
he murmured, entranced, to himself.

“ I beg your pardon,” said the young lady.

“Nothing,” he answered, blushing. “I
live at Streatham, too. It is quite a long
distance to it yet; and you must really let
me see you safely home.”

“ If you would,” she said. “The company
of your bicycle would make me look less of
an absurdity.”

So here was the explanation. The gentle¬
man mounted the high horse (not his machine)
at a leap.

“ Perhaps you would like to ride it ? ” he
said, with great asperity.

She went back a step or two, and her eyes
opened at him.

“Oh!” she cried. “Go on, please! I
would rather be alone.”

He could have bitten his tongue in two.
Were all his theories of the demoralizing
effect of trousers so much windy prejudice ?
He really must judge the sex from a different
standpoint of morality. Perhaps, after all,
utility entered into its principles of emanci¬
pation as well as indelicacy—possibly without
thought of the latter, even. He flushed to
the very roots of his hair.

“ Oh, do forgive me! ” he cried, im¬
pulsively. “I’m not a cad, upon my word,
I’m not. I only said it in a joke.”

The young lady seemed to hesitate, look-

716

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

ing at him intently. Then a bright little
twitch of a smile made her mouth desirable.

“ Well/' she said, “ I think I’ll trust my¬
self to you. Shall we go on ? ”

His heart leaped and sang in his breast
like a grasshopper. He walked by her side
in an enchanted dream, giving no thought at

fingers together and looked up at him with
an eager, woful, tear-stained expression of
sorrow, the heart in his bosom melted in one
explosion of sympathy—like a candle shot
out of a pistol—and he swore, for him, a
great oath.

“ Don’t be distressed ! ” he cried. “ Was
it of such importance ? I’ll get it back for
you—I swear I will. I’ll ransack the country

SHE CAME SLOWLY UP TO HIM.”

all to the sweet irony of circumstance that
implied him an apostate to his creed.

I hope you will recover your bicycle,” he
said. “ Was it a new one ? ”

“ Almost, and it suited me so well. I had
saved up to buy it, and I sha’n’t be able to
afford another one for years.”

Positively, to Mr. Tremills this seemed
one of the most pathetic speeches he had
ever heard. He cast about in his mind for
any possible means of supplying the loss to
her anonymously. As he reflected, she sud¬
denly gave a gasp, stopped, and looked at
him with horrified eyes.

“ What’s the matter ? ” he said, quite
startled.

“ Oh ! ” she murmured,
voice—“ I had forgotten,
letter in the satchel ! ”

“ Was there one there ? ”

“ I wouldn’t have it go astray for the
world. What shall I do ? Oh, what—what
shall I do ? ”

She broke down again, sobbing, with her
hands up to her face. He seemed, in a
measure, to have the right to soothe and
comfort her now, and he took some bashful
advantage of it. But when she clasped her

in a strangled
The letter—the

—I’ll leave no stone unturned.
Your bicycle shall be restored
to you.”

She shook her head.

“ It is hopeless. I feel that it is.”

He would allow her no cause for un¬
happiness. Uplifted on the wings of ecstasy,
he was jubilant and all flushed with self-
confidence.

“ You don’t know my resources,” he said,
gaily. “You must elect me your champion
in this cause. I am partly responsible for
the calamity, you know. You said so.”

“That was nonsense,” she answered,
quickly. “ I was over-excited. But will you
really try to get it back for me ? ”

He would have sworn it on the Bible.
She caught a little of his confidence, and
dried her eyes and walked by his side, talk¬
ing to him fitfully in a gentle, low voice that
fluttered the dove-cots of his sensibilities
consumedly.

She was tired by the time they reached the
outskirts of Streatham, and dragged her feet
a little. But when they reached her home
—a semi-detached villa in a park of new
houses, and, comparatively, a poor shrine for
such a divinity—she would insist upon his
coming in to receive the thanks of her
mother.

He protested faintly, and succumbed, of

WANTED—A BICYCLE.

717

course. He was already wilfully forging the
links of his thraldom.

She ushered him into a pleasant drawing¬
room, and left him, with apologies, to seek
her parent.

When alone, he noticed with pleasure that
a certain delicate fancy was observable in the
choice and arrangement of the furniture.
He attributed all this to his breeched
goddess ; and thought, traitorously, “ I leave
it to sterner reactionists to pronounce her
tasteless who is the queen of taste.”

By-and-by a stout, placid woman slid into
the room, along one oiled groove, as it
seemed. She was quite expressionless, in
a kindly way, and he felt no more fear of her
than he would have of an Aunt Sally.

“ My daughter tells me,” said this new¬
comer, in comfortable, confidential tones,
“that you have been most kind to her,
Mr.-”

“ My name is Tremills. I live not far

away. I came across Miss-Miss-”

She did not fill in the blank for him ; and
that for no reason but that she was a blank
herself. It is the first principle of an imper¬
turbable nature never to attempt to close one
hole with another.

“ I came across her,” went on Mr. Tremills,
blushing hotly and after an awkward—to
him—pause, “ in distress. Some scoundrel
had stolen her machine. She was not—was
not attired for walking, so-”

“You put her on your bicycle, I suppose,
and wheeled her home? That was most
kind.”

The gentleman gasped.

“No,” he said, stiffly; “Miss — Miss—
Dash ! ” he exclaimed, desperately, for the
woman wouldn’t help him.

“ Ah ! ” she said, pleasantly. “ That’s
what they wrote in the old story books when
they were hard up for a name.”

“And that’s just what I am, ma’am.”

“ Do you write stories ? You are an
author, then? I will sell you a good one—
‘Starkey Bunch.’”

Was the old lady touched? Mr. Tremills
twittered and drew back. At that moment,
however, his divinity walked into the room,
transformed, clothed after the custom of her
sex^ a gracious and graceful Hebe.

“Janet,” said her mother—(good; that
was a point gained)—“ thank Mr. Tremills
for his kindness to you.”

“ I’ve done so, mother, of course. How
can you be so ridiculous ? ”

She looked very kindly and a little rosily
on her knight. He had tea with them, and

sat in a simmer of Souchong and enchant¬
ment all the time.

“ She has appeared to me like Diana to
Endymion,” he thought, and we must accept
his sudden infatuation as excuse for this
somewhat startling parallel.

He was wise not to outstay his welcome.
Sweet Janet accompanied him into the hall.

“ May I come and report upon my
success ? ” he asked.

“ Oh, please.”

Her brightness took a tone of extreme
pathos.

“ You don’t know what it means to me to
get that letter back. It is of far more im¬
portance than the machine.”

“ You shall have both, I hope. Now, how
am I to know your bicycle if I come across
it?”

“It is a ‘ Clinker,’ and my name is
stamped in ink under the flap of the saddle.”

“ And the name is-”

“ Don’t you know ? Of course not—how
stupid of me. Well, it is Janet Medway.”

II.

Mr. John Tremills walked home on air.
He was as one who had supped with the
gods, and in whose veins the nectar that
brings no headache richly courses. At that
moment, it must be confessed, he was
prepared to take oath that, not only had
rational bicycling dress a complete raiso?i
d'etre , but that any woman who flouted it
was a frump, and any man who found
suggestiveness in it a blackguard and a
decadent.

This state of exaltation was for long very
impervious to practical impressions ; and it
was not until a warning nip of indigestion,
following a dinner somewhat hastily swal¬
lowed, and moistened with an extra ruddy
toast or so to his divinity, brought him to
earth, that he began at all to contemplate the
nature of the task he had undertaken. Then
—it is not to be wondered at—jubilance
withdrew, and depression set in.

To find any particular bicycle in that
stupendous service of iron and indiarubber
that criss-crossed the whole round earth with
tracks like the countless strands of a net !
It was a thing beyond the compass of any
but a clairvoyant or Saint Anthony.

Stay—a clairvoyant ! There was some¬
thing in the thought. Would it be possible
to hire one and to put him on the scent?
That might mean a long and costly business ;
and every minute was precious. No; the
clairvoyant would not do.

7 iS

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

He took another glass of wine, and
drowned his brain in a deeper puddle of
speculation. Till near midnight he struggled
and fought for a solution—a plan. At last
he fancied he saw his way out of the mess.
He would compound a felony—would adver¬
tise, somewhat after the following fashion :—

“ Will the gentleman who accide?itally
appropriated a lady's bicycle on the Car-
shalt on Road , on such and such a date , kindly
com?nunicate with So-and-so ? A substantial
reward will be given, and no questions asked."

Fain to accept this forlorn inspiration as
his only way out of the difficulty, .Mr.
Tremills rose,
shook himself,
groaned, and
after a brief in¬
terval went to
bed. For an
hour his weary
head strove to
piece puzzles
that would by
no means fit ;
then a delicious
drowsiness over¬
crept him, and
his trouble
melted into an
ecstatic dream
of love.

He woke sud¬
denly, with the
feeling that his
sleeping heart
had taken alarm
at some intangi¬
ble fear. A very
faint, grey light
was on the blind
—that first essay
of the coming
dawn that is like
the dying breath
of night on a
mirror, and that
seems to men¬
ace the watcher with unspeakable dis¬
coveries in its broadening.

He sat up in bed, breathing quickly, and
presently was conscious—he could swear it—
of a stealthy, unaccustomed sound somewhere
within the dark-locked house.

In a moment panic had him by the throat
—panic blind, unreasoning. He slid trem¬
bling to the floor and stood listening.

The sound had ceased on the instant—
confirmation irrefragable.

He had always entertained an easy convic¬
tion that his house was destined for burglars
to enter. All along the front were French
windows footing it almost flush with the
ground. But, after the fashion of human
nature, he had grown accustomed to look
upon himself as exempt from the perils that
beset ordinary humankind. I have never
met a man yet who did not consider his being
summoned upon a jury an outrage upon his
self-invesced privacy.

By-and-by a desperate heat of manliness
woke to quiet his shiverings. This was as it
should be. To lasso and to drive one’s own

courage by the
leg is to be really
brave.

He kept a
loaded revolver
and a dark lan¬
tern in a cup¬
board in his
room. These he
fetched out, and
softly striking a
match kindled
the latter. The
very glow of the
kindly round
disc comforted
him, as though
it were a watch¬
ful eye fixed
steadily upon
his interests.

He would give
himself no time
for thought, but,
in his nightshirt
as he was, went
swiftly to the
door, opened it,
and stepped out
into the passage.

All was deathly
still. It was
obvious he must
seek further for
solution of the mystery. With a great effort,
he went from the open door of his bedroom
—his ark of refuge, it seemed—and descended
the stairs, actually sweating with terror at
thought of what might be pursuing him softly
from above while he was intent upon his
front. I wonder, does ever the stalked burglar
suffer one tithe of the agony his stalker does ?

Mr. Tremills, however, came down un¬
scathed, and put foot with a shudder on the
cold oil-cloth of the hall.

“she looked at him with horrified eyes.”

Wanted—a bicycle.

719

“I’m covering you,” said a low voice in
the hollow of the dark. “ If you point your
weapon, I fire.”

The blood went back upon the poor
gentleman’s heart. He would have liked to
drop down and die, and end all the fear
there and then.

The silence of a long swoon seemed to
succeed. Then he managed to quaver out,
in quite a funny little falsetto : “ Where are
you? I can’t see.”

A faint trickle of laughter came back.

“ I’m snug enough,” murmured the voice.
“ Wish I could say the same for you.”

“ Are you going to shoot ? ”

“ That depends. Will you put down your
tool and come forward ? ”

“ On what condition ? ”

“If you’ll do it, honour bright, and give
me your parole you won’t take it up again,
I’ll not touch you.”

Mr. Tremills stooped and laid his weapon
on the stairs.

“All right,” he said. “ I give it.”

“ Now come forward a pace or two and
stand,” said the voice.

Mr. Tremills obeyed in horrible trepida¬
tion.

There was a rustle, the sputter of a match,
and light leapt up in the hall from a gas¬
bracket. A moment the blaze blinded him;
then he gave a gasp of utter astonishment.

A tall, gentlemanly young man faced him.
His features were cut to an agreeable pattern ;
a faint smile hovered about the corners of
his mouth. In his hand a long barrel
gleamed.

“You!” exclaimed Mr. Tremills.

“Quite so,” said the stranger, in a musical
voice. “ I decided to take you en 1'oute.
Your description last night of the insecurity
of your abode tempted me, I confess, out of
my path. Still, I regret having disturbed
you. ’ It was unintentional, believe me.”

“You are a—a burglar, then?”

“ A gentleman of fortune, sir. Are we
■ not all, in our way ? Does it surprise you ? ”

“No; I can’t say it does, after my hearing
that you had left the inn without paying your
bill.”

“A mere oversight, of course. I shall
send the money by post.”

He gave a smile of rich meaning. So
pleasant and conversational was his manner,
indeed, that his hearer’s veins began to tingle
with a warm glow of confidence; and he
even felt a little shame over the inconsequent
nature of his own attire as compared with
the other’s particular exterior.

“Did you walk from Dorking?” he said.
He might have been greeting a long-expected
guest.

“ I walked,” said the stranger, “ part of
the way. The rest—well, it was one of those
happy chances that almost embarrass the
favourites of Fortune—I rode on a bicycle.
A lady I chanced across lent me hers, and—
is anything the matter with you ? ”

The barrel in his hand was gleaming
horizontally in the direction of Mr. Tremills’s
breast.

“No, no ! ” almost shrieked that gentle¬
man. “ I have given you my word. I’m not
going to break it.”

“But really—your household ! ”

“ I’m only answerable to myself. I enter¬
tain friends, often enough and late enough.
You needn’t be afraid.”

He danced, positively, on the chilly floor,
and up to the smiling stranger. The latter
was quite courteous, but excusably tickled by
the entertainment afforded him.

“ The bicycle ! ” clucked Mr. Tremills,
gasping and subduing his voice all in one.
“ The bicycle ! You stole it! ”

“ Tut, tut! A brutal misinterpretation of
motive. Excuse me—really. I borrowed it,
my good sir, for a few miles ; only for a few
miles. It has lain stabled all the evening
near a Croydon tavern, while I played
billiards. I must give you your revenge
some day, by-the-bye.”

“ But—where did you find it ? What was
the lady like? Had it a name under the
saddle ? ”

The stranger laughed outright, but softly.

“ What is exciting you ? ” he murmured,
pleasantly. “ Upon my word, you ask more
than I can answer. But the machine is out¬
side at this moment. You can look for your¬
self, if you wish it.”

“I do. If it .is the one I hope it to be, I
will buy it of you—buy it, and let you walk
off here and now without the slightest further
molestation.”

The stranger laughed again.

“ Well,” he said, “ you’re a queer character.
But I confess to a liking for you, and I’m
not easily pleased. Call it done, then, at
fifty pounds.”

“ For a bicycle ! ”

“ Cheap,” said the stranger, coolly, “ under
the circumstances ”—and he a little ostenta¬
tiously swung the weapon in his hand.

“ I’ll give it ! ” said Mr. Tremills, hurriedly,
“ if it’s the one I want. Will you bring it in
here?” and he made for the hall door.

“ Pardon me,” said the kindly house-

720

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

He took his
hand, and led
drawing-room.

breaker, intercepting him. “ I don’t think
we’ll affright the neighbourhood with the
drawing of bolts. It lies amongst the shrubs
on the lawn.”

self-constituted host by the
him courteously into the
Here a ghostlier mist of
dawn came through one of the French
windows, the hasp of which, together with
the shutter-bar, had been deftly manipulated
by a practised, hand.

“ Please accompany me outside,” said the
stranger.

“ But the wet grass—my bare feet! ”

“ Wait not to find thy slippers,

But come with thy naked feet;

We shall have to pass through the dewy grass-”

gurgled the polite man, with a little hiccough
of merriment. “ You must really come.
Supposing I went
alone, and you were
to shut me out ? ”

“ I won’t, upon my
honour.”

“Honour
amongst thieves,
sir? You’re
compounding a
felony. Come
along ! ”

He had to go,
conscious that
he cut a suffi¬
ciently ridicu¬
lous figure.

“ Oh, Janet! ”
he murmured to
himself, as he
hopped over the
lawn ; “ what

am I not suffer¬
ing for your
sweet sake ! ”

Perhaps it was
a mistaken sacri¬
fice ; for woman
is so sensitive to
the ungraceful that,
does a man save his
heart’s desire from
drowning and appear
before her draggled,
he is like enough to find that his snares have
caught him nothing but a cold. But anyhow,
Mr. Tremills had his present reward.

“A match !” he gasped. “Light one!”
when the stranger had stooped into a par¬
ticular shrub, and brought forth what they
sought.

IF YOU POINT YOUR WEAPON,

He tremblingly leaned down, pulled up
the flap of the saddle, and, by the light of
the little taper, held by the other, softly laugh¬
ing, read thereunder the name he most
desired to find. Then he rose with a breath¬
ing sigh of exultation.

“Is it the one?” asked the amused young
man.

“ It is.”

“ I congratulate you—and myself upon
having been the humble means of procuring
you such happiness. The machine is yours.
Shall we go indoors and complete the trans¬
action ? ”

Mr. Tremills nodded. Reverently he
wheeled the machine over the grass, his eyes
shining, the tails of his nightshirt playfully
flapping in the morning breeze.

He deposited his treasure in a corner, and
—“ Now,” he said,
“ if you will wait while
I fetch my keys, I will
give you the draft.”

“No foxing,”
said the stranger;
“ or it will prove
a black draught
to you.”

“Sir,” said
Mr. Tremills,
with dignity,
“ kindly learn to
credit with some
value my name
of gentleman.”

“I do—on a
cheque,” said
the young man.

Five minutes
later he held it
in his hand.

“ Now,” he
said, “ I intend
to cash this the
m o m e n t the
bank opens. I
trust to your
‘ name of gentle¬
man ’ not to molest
me in any way.”

“You have had my
assurance, sir.”

The other buttoned up the draft in an
inner pocket. “ Well,” he said, “ I must
really be going. What an unconscionable
time I’ve kept you. I can only repeat I didn’t
wish to disturb you in the first instance.”

He laughed, walked towards the door, and
came back again.

WANTED-A BICYCLE.

“ By the way,” he said, “you may as well
have my pistol. Keep it as an example of
the force of moral persuasion] It belongs to
the machine, and is, in fact, nothing more
harmful than an air-pump.” And he laid
the gleaming barrel on the table.

III.

Mr. Tremills wheeled a lady’s bicycle into
the little front garden of the Medways’ house,
stood it up against a plinth of the steps
leading to the door, and, mounting the latter,
rang the bell and asked for Miss Medway.
He was shown, somewhat to his embarrass¬
ment, straight into the drawing-room, where
his divinity sat at afternoon tea with her
mother and a very surly-looking young
gentleman who appeared to be a visitor.

Miss Medway greeted him very graciously,
and at this the surly young gentleman
seemed to glower; and Mrs. Medway
knocked over a tea-cup, but did not evince
the slightest concern when she had done it.

“ Nothing disturbs mamma,” said mamma’s
daughter, ringing to have the pieces cleared
away. “She would sit like that if the
chimney were on fire and the wind blew the
soot all over her face.”

It was then that Mr. Tremills discovered
that mamma cherished a creed of preordina¬
tion, and had grown fat on letting things
look after themselves.

“ My dear,” she said, “ the cup was made
for me to break. But it can be pieced
again. Polytechnic cement will mend even
a broken heart, I’m told.”

“ Fish glue’s the thing,” said the surly
young gentleman, looking at Mr. Tremills as
if he dared him to contradict him.

That innocent person unconsciously took
up the challenge.

“ It would melt in hot water, I expect,”
said he.

“ I suppose I know what I’m talking
about,” said the surly young gentleman,
whose name, it presently appeared, was
Rooks.

“ George,” said Miss Medway, “ if you
can’t be commonly polite, you’d better go.”

Mr. Rooks rose from his seat at once.
The process seemed like taking a boiling
saucepan off the fire, for he went to a simmer
and sat down again.

A pang of discomfiture passed for the first
time through Mr. Tremills’s heart. Who
was this baleful youth with whom the young
lady appeared so intimate ? For all his
natural self-depreciation, he had given no
thought hitherto to the possible existence of

Vol. xvii.—91.

72 1

a rival. But—now he came to think of it—
was it likely that a damsel of such obvious
attractions would rest content with fewer
than a score of knights in her train ? It was
even within bounds that the satchel — the
return of which into her hands she so greatly
desired—contained some letter of a tender
or compromising nature.

On the thought his last rag of prudence
flew to the winds. Jealousy—the sting
behind the honey-bag of love, the bee—was
sticking in his side, and already he felt the
poison in his veins. Desperate to assure
himself a foremost position amongst the
imaginary stormers of that fair fortress, he
jumped into the breach of silence following
the last little assault, and, of course—-shy
man that he was—overshot his mark and
fell into the hands of the enemy.

“ Miss Medway,” he said, blushingly turn¬
ing to that radiant creature, and most un-
blushingly giving the lie to his petest of
theories, “ may I presume to congratulate
you on your courage in giving practical
expression to a movement amongst your sex
the wisdom of which no sane man can
dispute ? ”

“ I beg your pardon ? ” said the lady,
looking considerably astonished.

“ I allude — I mean,” stammered Mr.
Tremills, at once , getting very hot and con¬
fused—“to trou— to rational dress.”

Miss Medway said, “ Oh ! ” and drew
herself up immensely stiffly. Then she
added, to his complete amazement: “You
are quite mistaken. I utterly disapprove
of it.”

“But-” gasped Mr. Tremills.

“ Oh ! I know what you will say; that,
v because you saw me-”

“ I consider the man,” broke in Mr. Rooks,
in a violent, squabbling voice, “ a cad and a
bounder who doesn’t call it beastly ! ”

Miss Janet immediately turned her back
on the irate young gentleman, and addressed
a rather set face to her adorer.

“ I feel,” she said, “ that some explanation
is due in justice to myself. You found me
in a complication of situations.”

“ They were provided for in the beginning,”
murmured Mrs. Medway in the background.

“Then, mamma, they were very badly
provided for; for they turned out remarkably
poor ones. The day before yesterday, Mr.
Tremills, I rode over into the country to
spend the night with an elderly lady—a friend
of ours. It rained, and on the way I got
soaked. My wet clothes were left by a care¬
less servant too close to a roaring kitchen

722

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

fire during the night, and the next morning
they were scorched all over and rendered
quite useless. What was I to do ? I was in
despair. It was necessary for me to start on
my return journey almost immediately : and
my only way out of the difficulty was to
borrow and ride home in the—the dress you
saw, which belonged to, and had been left
behind by, a rather lively niece of the lady,
my hostess. The latter, by the way, was, I may
mention, extremely stout. This explains my
appearance. It is all a matter of taste, of
course ; and you are quite welcome to your
opinion. But I confess that I never felt so
ashamed in my life as when I was driven,
in that garb, to appeal for help to a stranger.”

“ No explanation was necess-,” began

the unhappy Mr. Tremills, and choked before
he could get further. How justly was he
punished for that traitorous denial of his
convictions. And here he had the misery,
without possibility of relief, of appearing to
champion a cause the condemnation of
which from the lips of his beloved his whole
heart indorsed.

He rose, after a few further commonplace
remarks, with a sort of suspended awkward
bow. His discomfiture seemed to make
impossible all that pro¬
spective enthusiasm and
gratitude that he had flat¬
tered himself was to be
his rich reward when he
came to make his gift of
restoration.

Here, however, he was
to be favoured beyond his
expectation.

“ I have to tell you,” he
said, in a depressed voice,

“ that I have been suc¬
cessful in finding your
bicycle ! ”

Miss Medway rose, with
a cry of real joy.

“You have found it S
Oh, where?—how? I can’t
tell you how delighted I
am.”

He caught the thrill of
excitement, and hoped
again.

“It was a strange ex¬
perience — too long to
relate now. Anyhow, I dis¬
covered the thief and made him
disgorge.”

“ Oh, how can I ever thank
you enough ? It was most kind

and clever of you. Is it intact ? Where
is it ? I am wild to see it.”

“ I brought it with me. It is resting
against the steps outside.”

“ Mamma ! George ! ” cried Miss Medway,
turning round radiantly. “ Do you hear ?
Mr. Tremills has recovered my bicycle for
me.”

“ I heard him,” said the gloomy George,
laconically.

“ Thank Mr. Tremills, my dear,” said Mrs.
Medway.

“ I’ve thanked him, of course. Do let me
see it. It’s outside, you say ? ”

All in a glow she ran into the hall; and
Mr. Tremills and the surly young gentleman
followed—the latter at a leisurely distance.

Janet threw open the front door and looked
forth.

“ Against the steps, did you say ? ” she
asked.

“Yes. Why—what’s become-? It

must have fallen.”

He leapt down the flight—turned and
turned and stared about him with a blank
face. Not a vestige of any bicycle was to be
seen.

A servant who was sweeping the steps of

WANTED—A BICYCLE.

7 2 3

the adjoining house looked over the party
hedge and addressed him

“ Is it the bicycle, sir ? A young gentle¬
man looked in and rode off on it just now.”

“ A young gentleman ? What young
gentleman ? What was he like ? ”

“ I’m sure I doesn’t know,” said the girl,
with a coquettish wriggle. “ He’d got curly
hair and plenty of cheek,, he had.”

Mr. Tremills turned, and looked up at
Miss Medway as she stood above him.

“ It must have been the same scoundrel,”
he murmured, in a dismayed voice. “ Miss
Medway, how can I explain-”

“Not at all, I think. I was a little pre¬
mature in my gratitude. But, please don’t
pick me out as the subject of your next
practical joke.”

Her eyes blazed at him.

“A reg’lar imposition and a stoopid one,”
said Mr. Rooks over her shoulder.

Mr. Tremills found his independence in
one overpowering sense of intolerable wrong.

“ You ungentlemanly fellow ! ” he said,
hotly. “ I’ll convince you yet which is the
better man.”

At this the surly young gentleman laughed
in a sardonic manner; and Mr. Tremills,
bestowing a bow of comprehensive meaning
upon Miss Medway, turned and strode away
with all the proud expression of resentment
he was master of. jy

Stung to the quick and half choking with
grief, anger, and the consciousness of out¬
raged sensibilities whose modest venture¬
someness had not deserved so bitter a fate,
the wretched gentleman wended his way home¬
wards, the rankling virus of disappointment
eating deeper into his heart at every step.

Reaching his house and entering the
dining-room his eye was caught by the
glitter on his desk of that fictitious weapon
with which the confident burglar had for so
long played with his timidity. He caught it
up in a burst of sudden fury, and apostro¬
phized the innocent tube somewhat after the
heroic fashion of the twenties. But then he
was moved beyond the capacities of ordinary
language.

“ Thou poor windy swaggerer ! ” he cried,
in a grief-stricken voice, “ who, boasting
the power of death over life, canst com¬
pass nothing greater than the inflation of
another as vacant as thyself with thine own
empty vanity ! Would that thou hadst,
indeed, contained the death-dealing bullet,
and that he—that dark haunter of the mid¬
night—had—had let you off! ”

In an access of rage he dashed the in¬
strument violently on the floor.

“ Great Scot! ” he exclaimed.

The tube was smashed in its fall—piston
and cylinder torn apart. From the hollow
socket a twisted paper protruded.

He stooped, and drew it out. It was a
letter in an envelope curled to fit into the
aperture, and the superscription on its back
was “ Miss Medway.”

Who had placed it there—the burglar or
the lady ? And was it the document so
greatly desired by the latter ?

For a moment, in his fever of resentment,
the angry man allowed the unworthy and
savage thought to dwell in him that here
possibly lay the means of an ample revenge :
that, by acquainting himself with the nature
of the contents, he might acquire a hold over
his beautiful victim that would presently
satisfy his uttermost wrongs.

It was the depravity of an instant, of
course. He was a gentleman, and a generous
one ; and by-and-by he put the letter intact
into his pocket, and would blush hotly when¬
ever he recalled that one-sided little wrestle
with his conscience.

But at least he would be in no hurry to
restore the paper. Miss Medway deserved
no tender consideration at his hands; and
she must just bide his convenience, and eat
out her heart with waiting, if need was.

“ She will find it very indigestible food,”
he would mutter, with a terribly tragic laugh,
entirely devoid of humour; and would then
fall into the pathetic mood over thought of
how much he would like a bite himself.

For days he lived the life of a grumpy
hermit, never going out of doors save into
his own garden. But one exquisite morning,
the ichor of life flowing sweetly in his veins,
he felt he could live in a vexed seclusion no
longer ; and out he stalked on to the Common.

Now, he had moved not many hundreds
of paces through a glowing September mist,
when he spied the object of all his solicitude
and unhappiness seated on a bench under a
chestnut tree. Her air, as he approached,
seemed a little weighted with sadness ; but
her complexion was beautiful as a Hebe’s in
the warm shadow of a leaf of asphodel.

He made up his mind at once to speak
and get his mission over. He approached—
his skin prickling, it seemed, under the lash
of offended love—and raised his hat.

“Good morning, Miss Medway,” he said,
in a stiff, cold voice.

She gave a great jump, looked up, and
blushed violently.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

724

“ Oh ! ” she said, “ how you startled

me ! ”

“ I am sorry. I’m afraid I have been
more than once an innocent cause of dis¬
turbance in you. Believe me, now as before,
I have intruded myself only in your service.”

“ Won’t you sit down ? ” she said, looking
up at him with rather eager, shining eyes.
“ I want to speak to you.”

She made room for him on the bench.
He could not resist so tempting an offer;
but he kept his spirits sternly on the defensive.
She appeared to have some difficulty in
beginning. At last she made the plunge, in
a desperate, pathetic little voice.

“ Mr. Tremills,” she said; “ you never
gave us your address, you know.”

“Didn’t I? Now I think of it—no, I
didn’t, of course. But what-”

“ I have only just discovered it, through a
neighbour. If I had known it before, I
should have writ¬
ten to thank you
for your good¬
ness and trouble
in finding my
bicycle for me
again.”

“ But-”

“ I know. It
was all an abomi-
nable mistake.

My cousin, Mr.

Walter Hark-
away, found it
outside, and rode
off on it fora joke.

He returned' it
the same evening,
and I rated him
so roundly that
he has hardly
held up his head
since.”

She looked
aside at her com¬
panion, timidly.

“ What an
atrocious, un¬
grateful wretch
you must have
thought me—and after all your kindness ! I
have been crying with remorse ever since.”

Mr. Tremills turned with a full heart. He
was melting, but he held on for another
moment.

“You did me a wrong,” he said. “But I
forgive you for your poor opinion of me—
that is to say, I forgive you, if you wish it.”

“ Oh, thank you—yes ! ”

“ And you have your bicycle again ? ”

“ I have it—yes.”

He looked at her with ardent eyes. For
all her gratitude there was a something want¬
ing in the tone of it.

“You missed something? ” he said.

“Yes. The letter was gone.”

He put his hand in his pocket.

“ Is this it ? ” he said.

She half rose—took the envelope from his
hand, and sank back upon the bench.

“ Mr. Tremills! How—oh ! why are you so
good to me ? ”

Mr. Tremills overflowed. The heavens
seemed showering their benedictions on his
head. When bashful men throw down their
burdens of reserve, it is usually upon their own
toes. They expand at inopportune moments,
and their relapses are proportionally severe.

He stood up shaking all over.

“Let me tell you,”
he stammered. “ Pain¬
ful as it is to me—no,
to you—as it may be,
I mean—I adore you.
I can’t help it—I am
in love all over.”

The lady looked at
him with steady, rather
scared, eyes.

“Oh!” she
breathed. “Is
this a declara¬
tion?”

“Yes,”he said,
with passionate
fervour. “The
best I am capable
of. No, please
don’t answer me
in a hurry. Take
time to think. I
know it has been
a short acquaint¬
ance ; but, be¬
lieve me—though
I am far from
wishing to extol
myself—I—I am
a bachelor of
considerable means, and I am not conscious
of ever having done anything particularly
wrong in my life.”

Oh, misguided confession ! Miss Medway
permitted a little smile to disturb her gravity.

“ That is very good of you,” she murmured.
“ Mr. Tremills, I am sorry-”

“ No, no ! ”

TAKE TIME TO THINK.”

WANTED—A BICYCLE.

725

“I can’t speak if you interrupt.”

“ I won’t. I won’t. You can’t mean no.
Tell me why.”

“ You have no right whatever to ask. But
there is more than one obstacle.”

“ Perhaps they can be surmounted ? ”

“ I fear not. There is one—let me see.
Oh, of course! Your championship of
rational dress would be a hopeless bar.”

“It is all a mistake. I was accommodating
myself, as I thought, to circumstances. As
a matter of fact, I detest it.”

“ But that is not all. I—oh, Mr. Tremills !
why should I try to mislead you ? I am
engaged already.”

The world seemed to fall about the poor
man’s ears. He stepped back quite stunned
and confused.

“To George?” he heard himself saying.

Miss Medway laughed outright.

“ Oh, dear, no ! To my cousin Walter.”

“ Who stole the bicycle ? ”

“ Yes. And, Mr. Tremills, I want to ask a
great, great favour of you.”

“It is granted,” he muttered, miserably,
barely conscious of his words.

“ You are generosity itself,” she exclaimed,
with real feeling, and, diving into her pocket,
fetched out a slip of paper and offered it to
him.

“ Will you please take this back and
destroy it ? ”

He accepted it half blindly—glanced dimly
at it. It was his own draft for ^50, payable
to bearer.

“ You are surprised ? ” she said, breathing
quickly, “/ought to be—but I am afraid
I know too well Mr. Harkaway’s irrepressible
love for joking.”

“ Mr. Harkaway !—the burglar ! ”

He was gathering from the wreck of his
world a little light and a little increasing
sense of dignity. Miss Medway looked down.

“ I am bound to confess,” she murmured,
“ that my cousin and the burglar are the
same. It was a stupid jest, and a dangerous
one; but he never calculates the chances
when he sees the way to make fun out of a
situation. He had always declared that, if
he ever caught me wearing rational bicycling
dress, he would do something to make me
remember it. He passed me on the road that
afternoon, as—as you know. I was picking
flowers at the time, and he had mounted
and ridden away on my machine before I
even knew he was near.”

“You remarked he was good-looking, I
think?” said Mr. Tremills, in quite a self-
contained voice.

“ I judged so from the appearance of his
back.”

The young lady here spoke rather de¬
fiantly, as if she were conscious of a change
in her companion’s tone. Then she went
on :—

“ He rode my machine to his own home,
left it there, and that same evening visited
us. He heard of my misfortune, and
actually had the face to commiserate me.
He is a dreadful boy. He also heard of
your visit and your offer. It now appears
he knew you by name and where you live ;
but I never found that out till yesterday.
That night—as he has since told me—he
went to a card party—some horrid bachelor
affair—positively rode my machine there—
and on his way back passed your house. A
servant-girl was slipping in at one of the
French windows, which had been left unlocked
for her own purposes, I presume. I would
not venture to suggest anything against the
creature, Mr. Tremills ; but I should cer¬
tainly advise your getting rid of her.”

“No doubt,” answered the gentleman,
coolly ; “ and with a good deal of old-
fashioned trust in my fellows with her.”

“You must please yourself about that.
But—where was I ? Oh ! what did that
mad boy do, but run my bicycle into the
garden, pitch it into a bush, and pursue the
girl into the house. He had been making
merry, no doubt; but I don’t wish to excuse
his conduct, which was outrageous.”

“ Oh, not at all! It was a joke, of course.”

“ Well, it was a poor one, I think. How¬
ever, he caught the girl in the hall, laughing
and struggling, and then they heard you
stirring above. The creature scuttled to the
kitchen, and my cousin out again through the
French window. Here, all might have been
well if he had only fled on his first impulse.
But, as the demon of fortune would have it,
the pump had tumbled out of my satchel—
and only I know what it contained !—and the
glitter of it caught his eye. In a moment
the insane idea occurred to him that he
would use this as a pistol, return, and face
out the situation for the fun of the thing.
He wanted to have a good laugh out of you,
and at first only intended to frighten you
and then explain who he was and all about
the lost bicycle. But, when he came to see
your face and the fright you were in of his
pump, he couldn’t for the life of him help
playing the farce out to the end. It really
must have been very comical.”

“ It was a piece of the most refined and
delicious humour you could imagine.”

726

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“Yes, yes, and to drag you over the wet
grass in your bare feet ! It was too cruel of
him ! He confessed it all to me last night;
and imagine what my feelings were when
I discovered that my hidden letter remained
in your possession ! I could have died—
I could, indeed. All night long I racked
my brains for a way out of the difficulty. At
last I determined to seek an interview with
you (Walter had given me your address), to
return you the cheque—which, of course, he
hadn’t cashed—and to throw myself upon
your mercy and tell you all. Chance put
in my way what I had not yet found the
courage to seek. Unsolicited you returned
me the contents of that wretched pump, and
nobly and at once you gave me your word to
destroy that equally wretched piece of paper.
I ask you to forgive the poor boy, Mr.
Tremills. His jokes are harmless and often
really amusing; and he gives no thought to
the possible consequences of his rashness.”

“ Madam ! ” said Mr. Tremills, with perfect
calmness, “the night before the afternoon
I had the misfortune—I really must say it—
to come across you, I spent, in part, with
your cousin at an inn in Dorking. It was
there he became acquainted with my name
and address—if, indeed, he did not, as you
suggest, know both already by report. The
next morning, so I heard, he left without
paying his bill. I have his assurance that
he intended forwarding the amount by
post -

“ Certainly,” broke in the young lady,
hotly. “ He told me about it. He has paid
it since.”

Mr. Tremills bowed.

“ I am rejoiced to hear it; and also to
understand that these exquisite jests, which
entail so much apparent loss and suffering
on others, are due, in effect, to nothing but
the engaging playfulness of youth. I destroy
this draft” (he tore the cheque deliberately
into quite a hundred little pieces, and
scattered them to the wind), “ as you request.
For the rest, permit me to congratulate you
upon an alliance. which seems to my un¬
sophisticated mind to promise as perfect a
union of sympathies and interests as it is
possible, in this world of antagonistic pro¬
pensities, to attain to.”

Miss Medway blushed a very vivid scarlet.

“ I mustn’t read between the lines, I
suppose ? ” she said, with a little forced laugh.
“ And, anyhow, it is another proof of your
generosity to leave yourself out of the
question.”

“On the contrary,” said Mr. Tremills, “I
include myself in the congratulations most
sincerely, I assure you.”

He lifted his hat in a courtly manner, and
walked off with an unmistakable appearance
of relief.

L’Envoi.

The postscript is the moral of the fable,
as we all admit. To this I must add that
the PPS. is the moral of the moral. Either,
in the present instance, to any moderate
student of human nature, is a foregone
conclusion.

But for the benefit of the curious, I may
mention that the first relates how, some eight
or nine weeks after the above-recorded meet¬
ing of Mr. Tremills with Miss Medway, Mr.
Walter Harkaway shipped himself, or was
shipped, to a distant colony yclept Rhodesia,
whither he made some rather ostentatious
show of carrying a lacerated heart, which was
more than once in danger of a premature
healing on the voyage itself, and which
eventually he submitted for treatment to a
Miss Lottie Huggins, whose father did a brisk
business with horses in the populous town of
Johannesburg; and further, that the second
records how, when Mr. Harkaway’s wound
was some months a forgotten scar, Miss
Janet Medway was united in wedlock with
Mr. John Tremills, a fact which any daily
paper of the period will attest.

There is no PPPS. to inform the reader
as to the nature of the relations that
existed subsequently between a pair that
scepticism would avow extremely ill-assorted ;
but this I am in a position to state—that it
was not until she was some months a wife that
Mrs. Tremills would consent to enlighten her
husband as to the contents of the mysterious
letter so jealously hidden away in her
bicycle pump. Then, his persistent curiosity
prevailing, she one day fetched and handed
him the fateful epistle, and hid her fair face
upon his shoulder while he read it.

And it was a note from a local boot-seller
informing her that he was in receipt of her
order for a pair of Pinet’s Elevators, which
he would procure and forward !

A short silence succeeded the reading;
and Mrs. Tremills looked up askance to see
her John’s eyes fixed upon her roguishly.

“ So you weren’t tall enough ? ” he
said.

“Not quite. What would you take me to
be?”

“ £ Just as high as my heart,’” said he;
and that, anyhow, is a pretty ending.

Animal Actualities.

Note. — These a*‘ticles consist of a series of perfectly authentic anecdotes of animal life, illustrated
by Mr. J. A. Shepherdan artist long a favourite with readers of The Strand Magazine. While
the stories themselves will be matters of fact , it must be understood that the ai'tist will treat the
subject with freedom and fancy , more with a view to an amusing commentary than to a mere repre¬
sentation of the occurrence.

XIII.

R. PIGGOTT had a dog, an Irish
setter, which, notwithstanding its
Hibernian name and pedigree, was
born and brought up in London.
Jack was its name. Jack’s ances¬
tors in Ireland had been sheep-dogs for
countless generations, but Jack himself knew
nothing of sheep at all, beyond whatever
acquaintanceship he might have had with an

occasional mutton-bone. Indeed, he had
never as much as seen a live sheep in his
life till the particular incident wherewith we
are concerned took place. But heredity is a
great thing, and in this case it manifested
itself in a very noteworthy manner.

Jack’s master gave him frequent exercise
in walks. But Jack was young, and it so
chanced that none of his walks had brought

3 A* •-

728

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

him within sight of a sheep, till one morning
Mr. Piggott chose Hyde Park as the exercise-
ground. One may often see sheep in Hyde
Park, and on this particular morning it
happened that a considerable flock disported
itself at large about the grass adjoining
the path Mr. Piggott chose. The flock
was wholly unguarded, neither a man nor
a dog having charge, and the sheep were
making the most of their liberty. Jack
stopped. What were these creatures ? He
had never seen such beings before—never,
at least, in his present life. But he knew
them well—more, he knew that something
was wrong. Hundreds of generations of
shepherd-ancestors in grassy Ireland had

learnt all about these woolly creatures, and
the knowledge had passed on to this inno¬
cent, untaught descendant. Jack knew that
they were foolish, weak things, these sheep
now first set before his bodily eyes—things
that must be lost without guidance; things,
nevertheless, that it was important not
to allow to be lost, and things which
it was the duty of the superior creature,
the dog, to take care of, to keep together, to
drive in the path they should go, to terrify
for their own good—even on extreme occa¬
sion to nip—lest they be scattered and lost
entirely. And here they were, alone and
uncared-for, with not a dog to look after
them. Jack’s ears lifted and his tail flourished

TROUT-FLIES AND HACKLE

ANIMAL ACTUALITIES.

729

intelligently. But Mr. Piggott interfered.
He read the gaze, understood the cock of
the ear, and interpreted the swing of the
tail. He seized Jack quickly by the collar
and took him along. The dog went sub¬
missively enough, but seriously disap¬
pointed. His master was resolved to have
no trouble with those sheep, so kept a
firm hold on Jack’s collar for full half a
mile, till the sheep were far behind, wholly
out of sight, and, Mr. Piggott felt no doubt,
altogether out of Jack’s mind. Here a friend
met Jack’s master — an angling friend, and an
enthusiast. When angling friends meet there
is apt to be talk of an absorbing, technical,
and mutually delightful character. Jack was
released, and at the moment forgotten, and
for a space all was trout-flies and hackle.

But while trout-flies and hackle hurtled
through the quiet air, Jack had gone about
his duty. The duty of every respectable dog,
as ancestral remembrance whispered in his
mind’s ear, was to collect together all

scattered sheep and drive them home to
his master. Jack left the neighbourhood of
trout-flies and hackle at a swift bolt. He
was gone but a few minutes, and his master
knew nothing of his absence till a broken
chorus of plaintive baa-aas disturbed the
conversation. And there, kicking up the
dust of the gravelly path, came an obedient
and compact flock of sheep, driven, guarded,
and kept from straggling with the true
science of the perfect sheep-dog. And from
behind the hurrying, bleating crowd beamed
the joyous grin of Jack, happy in the honour¬
able trade of his fathers ! Not a sheep was
missing, not one straggled. On they came,
and only when the flock stood, a compact
property, about the legs of the embarrassed
debaters on trout-flies, did Jack stay the
procession and gaze up in delighted ex¬
pectancy for the approval of his master.
For inherited instinct had triumphed, and
Jack was a poet among sheep-dogs, born
and not made.

A LITTLE SURPRISE.

Vol. xvii.—92

/Ulist rated Interviews.

LXV.—MISS ELLEN BEACH YAW, “THE CALIFORNIAN LARK.”
By M. Dinorben Griffith.

EAR the city of “ The Home
of the Queen of the Angels,”
as the Spaniards named Los
Angeles, California, stands a
quaint, roomy, one - storied
cottage, its broad piazzas
wreathed with vines and brilliant flowers.
It is called “The Lark’s Nest,” and, true to
its name, it is jealously hidden from view,

roses in bloom at the same time—miniature
lakes, fern shaded, and still more flowers of
every kind and colour.

In the distance, fields of Calla lilies,
orange groves, and orchards of luscious fruits.

The air is heavy with sweetness. Thousands
of humming-birds dart hither and thither, or
poise their jewelled bodies for an instant on
some favoured flower; the mocking-birds

From a Photo. by\ M1SS ellen beach yaw. [Steckel, Los Angeles.

and even from the too intrusive sun, amid
stately palms and rare tropical trees. Its
shady grounds are encircled with high
hedges of vivid scarlet geraniums vis-a-vis
with equally high hedges of white marguerites
that gracefully bend their long necks to every
wanton breeze ; and adorned with a hundred
and fifty different kinds of roses—one exquisite
variety, the “Gold of Ophir,” which stands
near the cottage, has a record of 10,000

hold noisy seances in the trees, and bees and
birds hum and sing all day long from the
mere joy of living.

This eternal summer-house in the world’s
flower-garden is the home-nest of a singing-
bird of rare quality that migrated to England
last year, and is well known as the “Cali¬
fornian Lark,” and the possessor of the
highest soprano voice in the world.

Miss Yaw must have learnt singing from

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

73i

the birds in her Cali¬
fornian home, for she
sings as they do, with¬
out an apparent effort.

She has a compass of
nearly four octaves, her
lowerand medium notes
having the rich quality
of a mezzo - soprano,
while the high, and
very high, notes are
sweet, pure, and clear
as a bell.

“I never heard such
a bird-like voice ; it is
almost beyond human
comprehension,” said
one critic. And so it
was. The young artist
reached F sharp in
altissimo with perfect
ease, and down the
two chromatic scales,
each note being of faultless purity and given
with a precision and crispness that was
nothing short of marvellous.

Tall, fair, svelte, with a dainty, flower-like
face, and endowed with one of woman’s
greatest charms—a low, sweet-speaking voice
—that is the best description I can give of the
Californian Soprano.

“ Were you born
in California ? ” I
asked, one day.

u No ; in New
York State; but I
was very young when
we went to live at
Los Angeles.

“At what age did
I begin to sing ?

Oh, I think when I
was ever such a wee
mite ! My mother
was very musical,
and was my first
teacher. She often
told me it was diffi¬
cult to get me to
practise, but that I
would sit for hours
at the piano impro¬
vising tunes to the
nursery rhymes I
knew by heart.”

At the age of six
little Ellen attended
a singing-school,
being one among

about a hundred pupils
of-both sexes ; they were
taught in class. The
master was struck with
the voice of the little
maiden, which for
quality and clearness
was easily distinguish¬
able from the rest, and
he told her to come
up on the platform and
sing the solos, and the
others would join in
the chorus. At this
time she could not read,
and could only remem¬
ber the first verse, so
the master had to
prompt her.

After the lesson was
over, she was asked if
she would like to sing
at a concert, and with
the permission of her parents she agreed to
do so.

“ Where did you make your first public
appearance ? ”

“ At Buffalo, New York. Perhaps you
would like to know what I wore?” she
asked, smilingly.

“I am sure the
public would.”

“Well, a little
striped calico frock
and a big print sun-
bonnet, and my song
was ‘ Away Down in
Maine.’ I was almost
frightened at the
noise the people
made; they clapped
me, and made me
sing it again and
again. After that I
sang at many con¬
certs.

“ My mother still
continued to teach
me up to the age of
fourteen ; then I had
lessons from an old
Italian professor.
When I was sixteen,
I went to Boston to
study, but only
stayed there three
months. I must
explain,” she added,
“ I am the youngest

From a Photo, by Bishop Bros., Minneapolis.

MISS YAW.

From a Photo, by Marceau , Los Angeles.

73 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

made up a concert party and toured
through the States for two winters,
each tour lasting six months.

She was received with the greatest
enthusiasm everywhere. In Denver
she received a perfect ovation. At
a concert there she gave, as an
encore, “ My Old Kentucky Home ,’ 5
with such pathos, that after the
first few bars many of the audience
were in tears. This was followed
by a gay French cha?ison . Her
last song, the “ Swiss Echo Song ”
—the call of the Swiss mountain-
girl re-echoing from the heights —
was rendered so faintly and so
sweetly, that it recalled Du
Maurier’s description of Trilby’s
last song, when she used just “the
cream of her voice.”

“ Have you met with any adven¬
tures or startling experiences? ”

“On one occasion it was said I
was fortunate enough to have saved
hundreds of people from an awful
death by a little presence of

IN OPERA.

From a Photo, by Morrison, Chicago.

of the family, and my hither had
lost all his money, and died
when I was quite a child. So
I was very poor, and could only
afford to take quite a few lessons
at a time. Then I had to sing
so as to make enough money
to pay for the next course, and
so on.

“ My next teacher, and one
to whom I owe a great debt of
gratitude, was Mme. Theodore
Bjorksten, a Swede living in
New York. She was very
interested in me, and I took
lessons with her off and on for
two years.”

The next important incident
in Miss Yaw’s life was a trip to
Paris with Mme. Bjorksten, and
she took advantage of her four
months’ stay there to have a
few more lessons from Belle
Sedie and the late M. Bax, after
which she returned to California
to a course of hard work. She

AT HOME.

From a Photo, by J. A. Lorenz , Los Angeles.

ILLUSTRATED INTER VIE ITS.

733

mind. I was engaged to sing at a place
in Texas; it was a cotton exhibition, and a
series of concerts was given every evening.

“ As I entered the huge hall I heard cries
from the audience, and someone called
4 Fire ! 5 I rushed on the stage just as I was,
in my cloak, and, holding out my hand to

paper, and as soon as I was comfortably
settled, I took it up to read.

“ I must say that I had somewhat of a
shock when I read that 4 Miss Ellen Beach
Yaw, the Californian Lark, while singing in
grand opera in New York, burst a blood¬
vessel and died on the stage , 5 but, best of all,

From a Photo, by] miss yaw, with her dog “keats.” [J. A. Lorenz, Los Angeles.

gain attention, I sang the first few bars of
‘ Lakme . 5 Almost at once the audience
calmed down, and I sang it right through.
I thought myself I never sang better— I felt
inspired. There was actually a fire, but it
was quickly extinguished, before the audience
knew that it was a reality, and not a false
alarm, and the concert was continued.

“ It is not given to many to read their own
obituary notices and the manner of their
death , 55 said Miss Yaw, “ but that once
happened to me. I was on tour with my
company, and had to take a train from near
Salt Lake City. We got into a sleeping-car ;
on one of the seats I saw a Chicago daily

it added that 4 her last few notes were like
those of a swan . 5 My mother , 55 added Miss
Yaw, 44 received hundreds of letters of con¬
dolence, but she knew that I was far enough
away from New York, so was more shocked
than alarmed . 55

44 And your life and amusements at your
home in Los Angeles ? 55

44 Oh, very simple. We are five miles
distant from the city of Los Angeles, almost
at the foot of the Rockies.

44 1 am out of doors all day. I go home to
rest; so I lie in my hammock or on the
veranda, always guarded by my dear and
beautiful dog friend, 4 Keats . 5

734

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“Sometimes I go to the grove to pick
oranges of our own growing—or to the
orchard for fruit; but my favourite occupa¬
tion is gathering and arranging flowers. I
retire to rest at the primitive hour of nine,
but am always up early—with the birds, in
fact.”

“ The wheels of your domestic affairs must
roll more smoothly with you than they do in
England, to give you the leisure to rest.”

“ Oh, yes, they do ! All our servants are
Chinese and Japanese ; they are very good,
and easy to manage : splendid workers if—
there is an ‘if’ here also—you let them have
their own way. All our vegetables and fish
are hawked by Chinese, and they are some¬
times most
amusing.”

“What rec¬
reations • or
social pleasure
do you indulge
in ? ”

‘ ‘ P i c n i c s
chiefly, and
afternoon in¬
formal calls;
sometimes we
make up par¬
ties and visit
the North
Am e r i c a n
Indians ; their
encampment
is only a night’s
railway jour¬
ney from our
place. I greatly
enjoy these
trips, for they
are a most
interesting
people.”

Miss Yaw showed me some little snap-shot
photographs of groups of boys taken in her
grounds. “ These boys,” she said, “ used
often to come and spend the day with me ;
they are from the ‘ Lark Ellen Home ’ for
News Boys at Los Angeles.

“ No, it was not founded by me. Do you
see that gentleman at the back, holding up a
little ‘ darkie ’ ? That is the founder—General
Otis, once a near neighbour of ours, now
Commander of the American Forces at
Manila.

“ The Home was called after me, for I
often gave my services as well as monetary
contributions, and still do all I can towards
its support. I am very much interested in

the scheme, for I think it is doing a great
deal of good in keeping the boys from the
streets. The Home provides board and
lodging for a hundred boys—Americans and
negroes—for the nominal sum of fourpence
a day each.

“It is my ambition to one day be able to
educate a few street boys and give them a
chance in life. Many of them are such bright
and intelligent little fellows.”

“ What about your second visit to Europe ?”
“ Well, I spent a summer on the Rhine,
and then coached under Randegger for my
next season’s tour in America. I was not
allowed to sing in England, as I was under
a contract with an American manager.

“ In the win¬
ter of 1897 I
again visited
Paris, and
studied for
opera under
Geraudet. The
director of the
opera paid me
a great com¬
pliment, com-
paring my
voice to that
of Christine
Nilsson. I
sang at one or
two concerts
in Paris, and
received an
offer to join an
opera com¬
pany at Nice.

“But the
most i nr p o r-
tant and, I
think, happy
moment of my
life was when I first appeared before a
London audience. I am, I think, the only
artiste who had made a name in America
without having first appeared in London.”

“ What are your favourite songs ? ”

“I am very fond of Ambroise Thomas’s
version of Ophelia’s Mad Scene, Alabieff’s
‘ Russian Nightingale,’ Auber’s ‘ Laughing
Song,’ and, well—I have many favourites;
and I love also all the old-fashioned songs :
Scotch, Irish, and American negro melodies;
they are so very plaintive and sweet.”

“Are you satisfied with your reception
here ? ”

“Yes, indeed ; everyone has been so kind,
and I have done so little. I have been

MISS YAW, GENERAL OTIS, AND BOYS OF THE LARK ELLEN HOME.”
From a Photograph.

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS,

735

other of my fancies, and together, on a
moonlight evening at home, we stroll down
a path leading to a vineyard at the foot of
the mountains, on purpose to listen to the
Frog Choir.

“ I am going to spend a few months this
summer at home, to rest and prepare for my

her, she has improved and perfected. Her
personality is most winning, yet she is as
simple, and I might say almost as diffident,
off the stage as if she were a little maiden
fresh from a convent. She looks upon her
voice as a talent intrusted to her by which
she may do good to others.

recalled two and three times in nearly all the
places I have sung this winter.

“You asked me what music I liked best !
My choice you will think strange: the
croaking of the frogs, with the chirping
accompaniment of the cricket. I cannot
say why I like it, but it certainly appeals to
me more than anything else. My Danish
hound, ‘ Keats,’ shares this as well as several

winter engagements in England. I can be
home in twelve days after leaving England.

“ What route ? Oh, I always prefer the
Santa Fe Railway from Chicago; it is a
perfect system, and the route is most
picturesque.”

Miss Yaw, in addition to being the
possessor of a voice as lovely as it is rare,
is also a great artist. What Nature gave

From a Photo, by]

IN THE GROUNDS AT HOME.

I J. A. Lorenz, Los Angeles.

The Good That Came of It!

By Annie

XT RE ME country in the
depths of winter is not exactly
cheerful, and Mary Holt was
beginning to find that the
cottage which she had
furnished so gaily in the
summer and hung with roses (which obstin¬
ately refused to clamber) was becoming a
bit of a white elephant. The fact that it was
hers, that the chairs and tables were hers,
and that the servant was her own undisputed
possession, did not counteract the gloom and
silence that seemed to settle down upon the
country in the winter. Even the oak panel¬
ling, warranted to be no less than 250 years
old, and in which she had once taken such in¬
ordinate pride, began to look chill and gloomy
as the days drew in and the light began to
fade; and Mary found herself wishing that
something would happen to break the deadly
monotony—even if it was only Aunt Tabitha
with a bilious attack or Cousin Rebecca with
an influenza cold. She felt that she would
go and nurse either of them cheerfully if
they would only be obliging enough to want
her. But neither of them did, and Mary’s
pride obstinately refused to allow her to go
to them without an invitation.

1 hey felt, no doubt, that a woman who
could live on the wilds of a common, with
only a female servant to protect her, was
unmaidenly in the extreme, and that such
uncalled-for independence required frigid
indifference to bring it to its senses. They
therefore neglected her, and, in the summer,
when the burning days were full of scents
and sounds and colour—the hum of insects,
the song of birds, and the drowsy voices of
the haymakers over the hedge—Mary had
been thankful that they had left her alone.
As a matter of fact, she had been rather
dreading their visit to her cottage, but, so
far, their outraged feelings had apparently
prevented it, and they had not even troubled
to inquire after the “mess” which they had
prophesied Mary would make when she set
up housekeeping for herself.

Before a fever of independence and burn¬
ing ambition to do something in the world
had seized her, she had lived a humdrum
existence with this aunt and cousin in a
select quarter of Brixton. After her father’s
death they had “done their best for her,”
which “ best ” meant residence in their
“commodious villa,” a starvation diet, and a

O. Tibbits.

careful and systematic snubbing, or, as her
aunt called it, “training,” in return for which
Mary paid them an extortionate sum from
her small allowance, and performed various
little acts of kindness, such as darning
stockings, mending table-cloths, and dusting
out the drawing-room, which, her aunt was
careful to explain, would be useful to her in
after life.

For a year or two Mary submitted meekly
to all these demands ; but when she came
of age—that is to say, reached the demure
age of twenty-five, and came into the undis¬
puted possession of ^200 a year—she deter¬
mined to try an experiment for herself. She
felt that she was po longer a schoolgirl to
be snubbed and scolded, but a woman of
means and — she vaguely suspected — of
brains. Certainly she had a very fair talent
for painting, and, with money, the ambition
which had withered away under her aunt’s
severe “training” began to reassert itself,
and once and for all she determined to do
something for her art before the Brixton air
got into her veins and froze her blood.

Already she felt that it was doing so.
Already she felt herself acquiring certain
little habits of starched primness — found
herself worried by specks of dust and
agitated about finger-marks ; and she began
to wonder disconsolately how long it would
take to petrify her into an exact copy of
Cousin Rebecca. The very thought of it
horrified her, and one sober November after¬
noon, when Brixton looked uglier than
usual, she made a sudden plunge and went
house-hunting. The result was that six
months later, after stormy scenes between
herself and her aunt, and after many gloomy
prophecies of the calamities which would
overtake her, she found herself installed in a
quaint old cottage on the outskirts of a
common, and there she settled down to
work.

She had every encouragement. A long,
light studio ran down one side of the house,
with heavy curtains at the doors and windows
to keep out draughts and noises ; with a big
bookcase filled with books at one end, and a
huge table covered with any quantity of
paints and canvas at the other. But, some¬
how, when winter came on, Mary had not
much to show. The garden seemed to have
taken up all her time, and now that the last
of the chrysanthemums were in bloom and
the days were growing short and dark, it had

THE GOOD THAT CAME OF IT!

737

ceased to be interesting. There was plainly
nothing to do. She looked with a sigh at a
solitary cabbage that seemed bent on defy¬
ing the winter, and began to feel aimless.
Winter, she decided, was wretched and
horrible, and on the edge of the common
there was absolutely nothing to relieve it. It
was no use looking out of the window, for
there was nothing to see except a ragged
hedge and an empty road, and she found
herself driven back on her little cottage,
which, somehow, seemed suddenly cheerless
and unhomelike.

It was, too, so horribly quiet and lonely at
night. Her nearest neighbours were nearly
half a mile away, and when Emma had
drawn the curtains and locked the doors
and retired to the kitchen, Mary felt herself
somehow shut out of the world and neg¬
lected. She began to feel as if she was
growing old. She looked, indeed, older than
she really was, and with the winter her spirits
sank, the colour ebbed from her face, and
she seemed to be rapidly freezing up into a
veritable old maid.

Just then, however, something happened
—something at once extraordinary and ex¬
citing, something which unhinged her life
and turned the gloomy common into a
centre of romance.

It was nearly seven o’clock. Emma had
put a log on the fire and taken away the tea-
things, and Mary had settled down with a
book in an easy chair. She had refused to
have the lamp turned up for a moment, for
the semi-darkness, with the long flames
shooting out flickering shadows across the
room, was pleasant, and she lay back idly in
her chair and watched it. She was getting
drowsy, and in a few moments would pro¬
bably have been asleep, but suddenly, in
the midst of the
silence, there
came the sharp
sound of horses’
hoofs on the hard
frosty road out¬
side, and then,
almost before she
had realized that
there was such a
thing as a person
abroad on that
dreary night, a
bullet whizzed
through the win¬
dow, scattering
the glass in broken
fragments to the

Vol. xvii.—93.

floor, and plunging into the cushion on a
chair at her side.

If she had been sitting in the chair she
would have been shot! For the moment the
thought dazed her. Then she started up
frightened and bewildered, but even as she
did so a second shot rang out through the
clear night air, followed by the hoarse, broken
cry of a man.

Mary darted from the room. Outside,
Emma was stumbling along the passage armed
with a rolling-pin—evidently the first weapon
that came to her hands—and she stared at
her mistress as if she was rather surprised at
seeing her alive.

“ What hever is it, ma’am ? ” she exclaimed.
Then, getting no reply, and evidently an¬
ticipating the worst from Mary’s breathless
attitude, she burst into violent sobbing.

“ Oh, mum, we shall both be killed, we
shall, and my young man, oh, what hever
shall I do ? ”

Mary, with sudden energy and thoughtless
courage born of her confusion, commenced
unlocking the door.

“We must see what it is,” she said, breath¬
lessly ; “ it’s no use being foolish. Go and let
Con loose.” “Con” was short for Confucius
Brutus—a dog.

Emma obeyed in fear and trembling, and,
with an outward and visible show of bravery
which she was far from feeling, Mary abruptly
and recklessly flung open the hall door.

“ Who goes there ?” she cried, in a voice
which she felt was slightly weak; “ who goes
there? Speak, or I fire.”

She reflected an instant later that that was
a reckless thing to threaten, and she imme¬
diately altered it to “ let the dog loose ” on
whoever it was who lurked behind the hedge.

However, she got no reply, and the silence

A BULLET WHIZZED THROUGH THE WINDOW.

738

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

was terrifying. There was not a sound to be
heard, not a thing to be seen, for it was a
dark night and slightly foggy, and she peered
across to the road in vain. It seemed almost
as if the shots had been fired by some
ghostly hand, and she shivered at the thought.
She was relieved an instant later to hear the
short, sharp barks of Confucius, and many
mutterings and exclamations from Emma as
she unloosed him amidst, apparently, effusive
greetings. He rushed away to Mary and
commenced his war-like proceedings by
jumping up and licking her on the face;
then, being sharply rebuked, wagged his tail
in hard thumps against the door, and imme¬
diately disappeared.

Mary and the girl, peering into the dark¬
ness, waited breathlessly for something to
happen. Mary was beginning to tremble
now, and Emma, already fearing that her
end had come, shook with suppressed sobs.
They waited in silence, hearing nothing,
feeling nothing but the fog at their throats
and the mystery of the night at their hearts,
and then, suddenly, Confucius whined, and
Emma grasped her mistress’s arm.

“ There ! ” she said, hoarsely.

“ He’s found something,” cried Mary,
excitedly. “ Oh, good gracious ! Con,
Con ! ”

She called him without result. They
could hear him whining, every now and then
uttering short, sharp snaps, and then sud¬
denly he began barking violently at some¬
thing under the hedge. The next minute
he came tearing back up the path, frightening
Emma into a violent exclamation and a
belief that they were as good as dead, and
began whining and dancing round Mary,
pulling at her dress, hurrying backwards and
forwards with the evident intention of per¬
suading her to follow him.

Mary bade him be quiet, and listened
intently. There was nothing to be heard.
The stillness was the stillness of the winter,
and there was not so much as the cracking
of a twig. Mary could hear her own heart
beating in the darkness, and then after a
moment’s doubt and hesitation, aggravated
by Emma’s repeated assurances that she was
going to her death, she ventured down the
steps and on to the gravel path. There she
stood trembling.

“ Give me the poker, Emma,” she said, at
last; “ I don’t think it’s anything particular,
but-”

The pause was impressive, and Emma’s
teeth began to chatter audibly. Mary waited
for the poker, and, while the girl was gone,

shrank back nervously to the step, while
Confucius, regardless of the dignity of his
namesake, rushed madly backwards and
forwards.

“Oh, miss,” said Emma, when she came
back. “ It’s a sin to go and risk yer life,
and if you’re murdered, miss-”

“Hush!” said Mary, nervously. “Em
not going to be murdered.”

Emma looked doubtful, and immediately
retreated behind the door, with her fingers
in her ears to prevent her mistress’s death
scream reaching them.

Meanwhile Mary advanced down the path
to the gate brandishing her poker, and in¬
quiring every now and then in a conciliatory
voice (for she was getting decidedly nervous)
who was there. Receiving no reply except
the exultant barking of the dog, she began
to feel that politeness was useless.

“ What is it, Con ? ” she cried, energetic¬
ally, “what is it? Fetch it out, then—Go
for it, good dog ! ”

The good dog, however, did nothing of the
sort, but continued to dash up and down in
a state of frantic excitement.

“ 1 don’t believe there’s anything at all,”
said Mary to herself. Then she remembered
the bullet buried in her cushion, and shud¬
dered. With an effort she went slowly forward
into the road. As she did so her foot
suddenly struck against something hard, and
she started back with a scream. Emma,
behind the door, hearing it, screamed too ; and
Mary, recollecting herself, stooped down and
picked the thing up.

At first when she had it in her hand she
scarcely realized what it was. Then she
became aware that it was a man’s hard
bowler hat, and she felt a little thrill of horror
seize her. With a nervous grip to her poker,
she crept quickly along the hedge, straining
her eyes in the darkness, shivering, until she
suddenly came upon a dark object, at which
Confucius sniffed eagerly. She dropped the
poker, and stooped down. The next instant
she had started up again, for it was the body
of a man she found, and was calling wildly
to Emma to bring a light. She waited until
it came, looking into the hedge in an agony
of apprehension. She was almost relieved
when the candle flashed along the ground
and found only a young man in evening
dress lying on his face. To her sudden
horror, however, he appeared to be dead ;
but when she lifted his head and listened she
fancied that he still breathed.

“ What shall we do ? ” she asked the
now open-mouthed Emma. “ Do you think

THE GOOD THAT CAME OF IT I

739

we could drag him into the house between
us ? ”

Emma sniffed.

“A man,” she said, contemptuously. “I
never did such a thing in me life, mum.”

words, ma’am,” she said, after a moment’s
impressive silence, “some bad’ll come of
it !”

Mary was trying to move the man into a
more convenient position, and, as she did so,
the fluttering light of the candle flashed up
spasmodically into his face. It was a young
face—a young face with marks of dissipation
scored upon it which Mary’s innocent eyes
did not understand, with a mass of brown
hair waving back from a square forehead, a
straight nose, and a brown moustache cover¬
ing a firm mouth.

Mary looked at him with awakened
interest.

“ He looks quite a nice young man,” she
thought, and she saw only the pitiful white¬
ness of his face.

“ Now, Emma, come along,” she said,
aloud. “ Come and help me to lift his
shoulders. We must drag him in somehow,

for it would be downright wicked- Oh,

never mind the light,” as the girl raised
objections; “ put it down in the middle of the
road.”

Emma obeyed, reluctantly.

“ I don’t see as it’s my place to move

strange gents,” she began, “ ’as ’appen to lie
in the roadway-”

“Oh, Emma, don’t be absurd,” Mary
interrupted, seizing his shoulders. “ Don’t
you see that the poor fellow’s shot, and that
he’ll bleed to death if we leave him here ?

Come and help
this minute.”

Emma pursed
her lips and looked
down suspiciously.
At that instant
the man stirrqd
slightly and
groaned, and
Mary, to her
intense dismay,
started and drop¬
ped him abruptly
to the ground.

“Oh,” she be¬
gan, nervously, “ I

am so sorry-”

Then she saw
that he had fainted
again, and a
sudden feeling of
helplessness and
terror swept down
upon her.

“ Oh, what shall
we do ?” she cried,
impetuously. “ He might die! Good heavens,
what shall we do ? ”

Emma stated with emphasis that he was
only “taking on.” When, however, Mary
held the candle to his face and Emma
saw an ugly patch of red blood discolouring
his white shirt, her suspicions immediately
changed to a peculiar interest. She felt that
a royal, first-class, Adelphi melodrama had
come to her door, and she had a strong desire
to see it out.

“ Oh, lor, ma’am,” she said, in tones of awe,
“’e ought to be got in at onst.”

She stooped down with willing energy to
take a shoulder while Mary took the other,
and Confucius, having returned from an in¬
teresting rabbit hunt in an adjoining meadow,
began to bark frantically.

They managed to drag him, inch by inch,
and little by little, up the pathway to the
house, and there with great difficulty got him
into the studio. Having accomplished this
much they sat down breathlessly to look at
him. What they saw evidently confirmed
Emma in her suspicions, for she sniffed
disdainfully.

“ I said ’e was a vili’in,” she remarked, as

740

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ THEY MANAGED TO DRAG HIM, INCH BY INCH, UP THE PATHWAY.”

if his wickedness was an undoubted fact.
“He didn’t get wownded like that for nothink
—there’ll bad come of it, miss.”

She went off into an ecstasy of excited
prophecy, which Mary interrupted in the
middle by a request for some hot water. She
thereupon got up and marched to the kitchen,
where she belaboured the pots and pans with
such emphasis that Confucius, thinking it
was rats, darted wildly after her.

“What hever are we goin’ to do with him?”
Emma asked, when she returned, bearing a
steaming kettle. “ I never ’eard o’ the likes
—a-harbourin’ a murderer, p’r’aps.”

“ We must get a doctor first,” said Mary,
calmly. She had managed to get off the man’s
coat, and had found a wound in his shoulder
from which the blood was oozing rapidly.

Emma stared at her in terrified reproach.

“Wot, me?” she cried. “Me goin’ ail
over that lonely road by meself at dead o’
night ? ”

“ Well, then, /’// go,” said Mary. But the
suggestion only seemed to increase Emma’s
agony.

“ Wot, an’ leave me ’ere in the ’ouse with
a corpse ? ” she screamed.

“Oh, Emma,” said Mary, horrified at her
unfeeling remark. “ There won’t be a
corpse, and besides you can have Con. One
of us must certainly go, and one of us must
stay and attend to this. I don’t know how
to bind it up, and to keep bathing it is the

only thing we can do.
You had better stay
and do it, and I’ll go
and fetch the doctor.
I can get there in ten
minutes on my bicycle.”

After some reluct¬
ance Emma consented,
and Mary disappeared.
As she got out her
bicycle and wheeled
it into the road she
reflected that it was
rather a quixotic thing
to do, and that she
might, as Emma said,
be harbouring some
awful individual — a
thief, a lunatic, or a
murderer even. She
remembered the shots
she had heard and
shuddered. Supposing
he was a murderer ?
Suppose there was
another man lying out
somewhere on the cold, frozen road ?

The thought was such a shock to her
nerves that when she reached the doctor’s
house she asked for herself, and, the house¬
keeper having mentioned that she thought
Miss Holt was wandering in her mind, the
doctor came out in some astonishment.
When he saw her and heard of the accident
—or tragedy, or whatever it might turn out
to be — his astonishment deepened into
horror, and he hurriedly prepared to ride
back with her. When they reached the
cottage, they found Emma seated at a
discreet distance from the stranger, while he,
with one hand on the head of Confucius,
asked inconsequent questions concerning his
whereabouts. Directly Emma caught sight
of them she started up.

“ He’s mad,” she cried, regardless of his
feelings, “ and ’e thinks as I’m ’is aunt an’ as
’e’s goin’ to marry me an’ all sorts of things.”

Mary looked surprised, and the doctor,
with a sudden glance at the young man’s
half-unconscious face, went hurriedly forward.

“ Why, it’s young St. Hill,” he cried. “St.
Hill—Hugh ! Don’t you know me? ”

The young man opened his eyes.

“Oh, the deuce!” he said, faintly. But
before anyone could exactly determine
whether that was a conscious or unconscious
remark he had wandered off into other
subjects, and was addressing Confucius as
“ Tom,” greatly to that dog’s confusion.

THE GOOD THAT CAME OF IT!

74i

II.

Afterwards, when Mary was in bed and
thinking calmly over the night's events, she
began to wonder what had prompted her to
act in such a reckless, not to say foolhardy,
fashion.

1 hen the serious side of the affair came
uppermost, and she lay thinking of it, wonder¬
ing who had fired the shots and why—who
and what young St. Hill was who was occupy¬
ing her studio, and wondering what tragedy
was hidden behind it all—until she fell asleep.

In the morning the doctor came out of the
studio, with a look upon
his face which imme¬
diately quenched Mary’s
anticipations of
thing pleasant.

“ I am afraid,”
he said, as he
followed her into
the sitting-room
and took his seat
at the breakfast-
table — “I am
afraid that this
may turn out
rather more
serious than you
expect.”

Mary looked
up earnestly.

“ It seems to
me,” he went on,

“ that there was
a rather serious
affray out in the
road last night,
and St. Hill does
not please me.

There are signs
—symptoms of a serious
illness, perhaps, and I
hardly know what to
do. I am afraid—well,”
he concluded, abruptly;

“ I am afraid that he ought not to be moved
—for a day or two, at any rate.”

Mary opened her eyes and a slight flush
ran up into her cheeks.

“ Oh, doctor ! ” she said, “ and shall we
have to nurse him ? ”

He smiled at her confused face.

“My dear young lady,” he replied, “hardly !
I should send down a nurse, of course; but
I was thinking of you—of the inconvenience
and worry if he should become seriously ill;
and I think—perhaps—if he—were—moved
at once-”

He broke off, doubtfully. Mary leant
over the table.

“ I should never dream of sending him
away if there was any danger,” she declared.
“I could go myself—easily. I could give
the cottage up to you and go to my aunt in
Brixton for a bit. Oh, I can manage that A

The doctor looked slightly relieved.

“Then I ought to tell you,” he added,
presently, “ that—that there may be police-
court proceedings. I don’t know, of course,
what happened last night, but if St. Hill fired
at anybody, or if anybody fired at him, some¬
thing may come of it,
you know.”

Mary looked aghast.

“ Oh, well ! ” she re¬
nt arked, pre¬
sently, when she
had recovered
herself a little.
“We won’t think
of that—it’s only
‘may be,’ and
we’ll leave it. I
daresay it was a
poacher or a
tramp or some¬
thing, and he’s
probably got
clear away by this
time.”

Then, sud¬
denly, a thought
struck her.

“Why,” she
cried, “by rush¬
ing out like that
I may have saved
his money, mayn’t
I? If it was some
tramp trying to rob him
he may have heard me
and bolted. Oh, fancy !
I’m really quite a
heroine.”

The reflection seemed to please her, and
she sat thinking profoundly for a minute or
two, while the doctor waited patiently for
his breakfast. She remembered him sud¬
denly, and began hurriedly pouring out the
coffee.

“ I’m awfully sorry, doctor ; you must be
starving,” and she energetically handed him
the cup and pushed over the toast.

“ Now tell me all about this St. Hill,” she
demanded, presently. “ Who is he ? ”

The doctor replied, slowly.

“ Well, I don’t know that I can tell you

MARY LOOKED AGHAST.”

7 42

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

much,” he said. “ His father is a Major St.
Hill, and lives a little farther along the
common. I know Hugh, because I am his
father’s doctor, but it is some time since I
saw him, and—and—he has altered a little.
He was a boy—or, at any rate, boyish a few
years ago. He’s older now, of course.”

The statement was beyond dispute, and
Mary laughed.

“ Of course,” she said, “ but is that all ? ”

“ All ? ”

“ Yes; I mean, isn’t there anything in¬
teresting about him—adventures or any¬
thing ? Is he only his father’s son and
nothing else ? ”

The doctor studied the bottom of his cup.
There were things which he did not like to
tell her—things which he could not mention
while St. Hill was in the house and helpless,
and he took a hurried sip of his coffee
grounds.

“ No, that’s all,” he replied. But that was
not exactly true, and Mary’s face looked
slightly disappointed, for she had made up
her mind that he was an adventurer at least.

During the next few days many things
happened. A nurse came with great stir
and bustle and took charge of the studio;
the symptoms which the doctor had dreaded
had abated, and the arm
began to heal, and Mary
and young St. Hill became
thick friends. The doctor
did not seem particularly
pleased at this latest deve¬
lopment, and waited with
some impatience for the
day to come when St. Hill
could be moved.

Meanwhile the nurse,
an old and florid person,
watched the proceedings
with disgust. She had
“ views ” with regard to the
sick room, and if she had had
her own way would have locked
the invalid up by himself and
treated him to a severe diet of
Liebig and sermons; and when
Mary sacrificed her last chrysan¬
themums to brighten the room
and played waltzes to him, and
came in armed with the latest
magazines and all the up-to-date
literature she could get, her feel¬
ings verged on open rebellion.

“ This is against all the rules,”
said Mary one afternoon as she

came in with a tray laden with toast and cake
and other indigestible luxuries; “ but nurse
won’t be back for hours yet, and I know it
will do you good.”

She deposited the tray on a table and
wheeled it up to the couch where St. Hill
lay, partially dressed in a smoking-jacket.
She sat down calmly and began pouring tea,
and he watched her with an eager light in
his grey eyes. She certainly looked rather
pretty as she sat there, with the light from a
lamp falling on her fair hair, and the inter¬
ested look in her face that altered it so
much ; and he, with his critical eyes, noting
the details of her dress, saw that it was
simple and plain and neat, and liked it. He
watched her little hands — not white, but
rough and red, with gardening and house¬
work — and he liked them better than the
hands* of most women he had known, and
he lay back luxuriously and allowed them to
hand him his tea.

“ By Jove, you’ve been awfully good to
me,” he observed. “If it hadn’t been for
you I —1 might have died.” The thought of
death was not pleasant, and he shuddered.
“ It was almost a tragedy,” he went on.
“ It was very nearly U.P.—up.” Then, sud¬
denly, he met her eyes, and the light died
out of his. “ I’m not sure that it isn’t a
tragedy still,” he added;
“ that it may end a tragedy
after all.”

She dropped a lump of
sugar into his cup with a
splash.

“ Oh, no, indeed,” she
said, hopefully, “ there’s no
danger of that. The doctor
said this morning that there
was no fear whatever of a
relapse, and in a day or
two you will be quite well.”

St. Hill’s face changed a
little.

1 Yes,” he said, slowly ; but
his eyes lingered on her face
with something in them which,
if she had seen, she would not
have understood — something
which he scarcely understood
himself.

“You must be awfully
brave,” he said, after a while;
“ you come and take a cottage
out here, away from everybody,
and live your own life—you’re
very independent, you know.
And then, that night you were

THE GOOD THAT CAME OF IT!

743

awfully plucky. I could never have done it
if I had been a woman.”

“ Oh, yes, you could,” said Mary; “besides,
I didn’t stop to think, and I was simply
dying for something to happen—I didn’t care
what, much. It was really awfully silly.
Supposing you had been a tramp or some¬
thing horrible ? ”

He smiled. “ I might have murdered
you, eh ? ”

She nodded.

“Or robbed you? Or ran away with
Emma ? Or shot Confucius ? ”

She nodded again. “ Oh, yes, any of those
things. You might have been a perfect
beast.”

“ How do you know that I am not ? ” he
asked, % suddenly.

“ Of course , I know you’re not,” she
replied, laughing.

“ But hoiv do you know ? ” he persisted.
“Supposing I told you that I was a beast,
what then ? ”

“ I should laugh at you,” she said.

“ Yes, yes, you might laugh. But would
you believe it, if I told you, that I was—er—
say, a cad or something beastly ? ”

“ Oh, I know you’re not.”

“Supposing I told you that that night,
when I was riding home, I had robbed a
man—that I had played him a trick which
was equivalent to putting my hand in his
pocket and taking his money—you wouldn’t
believe me ? ”

He raised himself on his elbow and looked
eagerly into her face. She did not meet his
eyes—something in them embarrassed her—
but got up and went to the mantelpiece,
where she drummed abstractedly with her
fingers.

“ I know you wouldn’t do such a thing,” she
said, obstinately. “ I can see it in your face.”

He fell back again.

“ Miss Holt, come here. Please sit down
there, opposite me, and look me in the face.
Now, don’t you see ‘blackguard’ written there
on every line ? ”

He forced himself to meet her gaze, but
his lip quivered. She did not know what it
cost him to look at her then, and when she
said “no” he almost laughed.

“ Miss Holt,” he cried, hoarsely, “it lies —
my face lies. Listen to me. I must tell you
—God knows why, but I must be honest for
once. You evidently know nothing about
me—you don’t know what I am and the
doctor has told you nothing—but I tell you
now that I am a blackguard from beginning
to end.”

She listened, with her white face staring
into the fire, while he plunged into details of
his life—of a reckless sowing of wild oats,
of gambling, drinking, and racing, to which,
in what was apparently an effort to shock
her, he added all the horrors he could
remember.

“Then that night—nearly a fortnight ago
now, isn’t it ?—I had been playing cards all
the afternoon at a house on the other side of
the common, and I cheated. It was not the
first time either. I was in want of money—
on my last legs in fact, and the fool let me
cheat until Heaven knows how much of his
paper I had. If you don’t mind handing me
that coat, we’ll see.”

For a moment she hesitated. Then she
got up mechanically and gave it to him. He
plunged his hand into one of the pockets
and brought up a packet of I O U’s.

“Ten—twenty—sixty,” he counted, “and
a cheque for ^1,000. That meant ruin to
him, and I knew it. Yet I took it.”

He stopped and looked at her half defiantly,
as if he wanted to rouse her indignation.

“ Do you wonder,” he added, “that when
he found out that I had cheated he rode after
me and shot me ? He was a passionate man,
with an ungovernable temper, and it was he
who did it—no tramp, no robber, but a man
who had once been a friend of mine, and who

had once—believed in me.Oh, no,

Miss Holt, you are mistaken. I am a verit¬
able blackguard— £ a perfect beast.’ ”

She sat clasping her hands, looking into
the fire, and just then Emma’s ludicrous
prophecy that “ bad’ll come of it, miss,”
flashed into her mind. She felt her heart
contract suddenly—she suspected (as one is
sometimes only half conscious of a wound)
that she had been hurt, but a minute later
she turned.

“I don’t know—I can’t tell,” she said,
between tears and laughter. “You sound
very bad, but—but Confucius took to you,
and he never took to a wholly bad man yet.”

St. Hill’s eyes met hers with a strange,
strained look in them. In all his life he had
never met a woman like Mary Holt—he had
never known anyone who had a good word
to say for a penniless blackguard, but she
was made of different stuff, and he felt
somehow that she would have found a good
point in him if he had been blacker even
than he had painted himself.

“ You’re not like most women,” he said,
slowly, “and—and—somehow, I wish I could
have made myself a bit of a hero in your
eyes.”

744

THE S TEA HI) MAGAZINE.

OH, NO, MISS HOLT, YOU ARE MISTAKEN.

A few days later Hugh St. Hill departed.
Mary stood leaning over the gate watching the
carriage disappear round the bend of the road,
and then the dreariness and desolation settled
down upon the cottage again.

It all became once more as it had been—
lonely and quiet, and yet nothing seemed the
same.

Shortly after St. Hill had gone, his father
(who had been away while Hugh was at the
cottage) called to thank Mary in person for
her kindness to his son, and after that all
news about him seemed to find its way to
her. She heard about his wild career at
college, of his still wilder and more desperate
deeds in London, and then she heard that
after his arm had healed his almost broken¬
hearted father declared he would pay no
more debts for him. Then, strange to say,
Hugh had suddenly settled down. People
refused to believe it at first. They said he
would break out again, and they waited with
becoming patience for him to do so. But
he never did. Perhaps his close escape from
death had unnerved him. At any rate, he
gave up his cards and gambling, he neglected
his old companions, and took to spending
his evenings at bezique with the major, until
his regiment was ordered out to the East.

Then people promptly forgot all about

him. That is to
say, some people
did, but Mary was
obstinate. She
could not forget
the face which
she had seen lying
helpless and piti¬
fully white in her
little cottage, and
the ugly stories
clung to her
memory (as ugly
stories will), and
made her wonder
sometimes what
he was doing out
in India where
the soldier’s were
fighting and brave
men falling every
day. Was he
gambling and
betting and drink¬
ing there, too?

“ Of course he
was wrong — oh,
yes, he was wrong
altogether,” she
said one day to the doctor, whom she met on
the common. “ But he was brave, I am sure
he was brave; and—and sometimes I don’t
think that he could have been—altogether—
bad.”

The doctor looked at her keenly with his
quizzical eyes.

“Well, do you know,” he said, “I’ve just
heard something which makes me think that
there is some good in him somewhere. One
can never tell. He has been a black sheep,
and people have been condemning him—
calling him ugly names for years ; but to-day
I have heard a queer story, and I’ll tell it to
you, provided you keep it to yourself.”

“ Of course I will,” said Mary, quickly.

“ Well, it’s this. The man who shot
him is a friend of mine, Thomas Day.
He was once a close friend of St. Hill’s,
but he found him out, and he’s been
calling him names like the rest of ’em.
Now, however, he sings a rather different
tune. Some time ago it appears he re¬
ceived a mysterious letter containing a
large sum of money. It contained a slip of
paper saying only, ‘.This is owing to you.’
There was no clue to the sender, not the
slightest; and, strange to say, a friend of his
received a similar letter at the same time.
Day was determined to ferret the matter out,

THE GOOD THAT CAME OF IT!

745

and at last—after a lot of trouble—detectives
and so on—what do you think he has found? 55

Mary did not know, but the colour had
gone from her face, and her eyes told the
doctor a story.

“ St. Hill,” he said, briefly and suddenly.
“St. Hill! It appears he had some money
left him a short time ago, and no one knew
what he did with it. It went somewhere,
and that’s where. He has been sending it
quietly back to the men he cheated, never
thinking he would be found out, of course.
•He need not have done it. Perhaps his
conscience bothered him, and you know,
Miss Holt, he had a narrow squeeze when
he was shot that time. The bullet was pre¬
cious close—a bit of an inch more, and
St. Hill would never have gone to the East.
Perhaps that sobered him. You know
I thought he was a big scamp at that time,
and I didn’t half like the idea of his being
in your cottage. However, one can never
tell—never tell. This money business is
rum to me. It seems as if—well, as if he
had had his fling, you know ; and, perhaps,
with this fighting in India he may turn out a
better man than we think.”

He hurried off, and Mary went slowly back
to the cottage. She found Emma kneeling
with a bucket over the stain in the carpet,
which still obstinately refused to budge.

“ Just look at it, mum ! ” she cried, as she
caught sight of her mistress in the doorway.
“Did you ever ? ”

She brandished a brush with supreme dis¬
gust, and Mary, with the doctor’s story in her
ears, quite forgot her usual dignity.

“ Oh, he was a hero after all, Emma,” she
cried, excitedly. “ He was a better man
than you think. I’m sure he was a better
man than we think.”

Emma, who probably thought very little
about it, opened her eyes, and Mary fled in
haste to escape the puzzled look of surprise
and consternation she saw in them.

It was nearly three years before S’t. Hill
came back to the cottage, and then he came
under slightly different circumstances—he
called. He came up the path with his arm
in a sling—even as he had gone—and he
looked very much the same, with the same
keen face, the same bright eyes and smile,
but there was a difference, and Mary knew
it. He had distinguished himself in India.
He had been the bravest of the brave, risk¬
ing his life to save others, forgetting himself
for the sake of the men around him, and he
came home with a Victoria Cross in his

Vol. xvii.—94.

pocket and a title to his name ; and just then
all England rang with it.

But to anyone who watched him walk up
the path he would have appeared almost
nervous—not at all like a national hero. He
walked slowly, and his face had a strained
white look which was not entirely due to the
pain in his arm. He went up the cottage
path, and what happened then no one can
exactly say; but I know this—he went up to
Mary, who looked rather white, and took her
hand in his uninjured one.

“ Mary,” he said, “ three years ago I was a
blackguard. If it hadn’t been for you I

‘MARY,’ HE SAID, ‘THREE YEARS AGO I WAS A
BLACKGUARD.’ ”

might have been a blackguard still. I know
I’m not up to much now, but for your sake
I’ve tried to be a little better, and—and—
Mary, I care a very great deal about you.”

Then Mary did a very foolish thing—she
cried, and St. Hill very clumsily took her in
his arms—or, rather, arm—and made a sug¬
gestion.

Afterwards, when Emma was informed
that Hugh was going to marry her mistress,
she looked triumphant.

“ There ! What did I tell yer ? ” she
exclaimed. “ I said as bad ’ud come of it,
an’ it ’as ! ”

Humour in the Law Courts.

By “Briefless.”

Illustrated from Sketches by the late Sir Frank Lockwood.

O the world at large, law is
little associated with laughter.
That the courts have their
humorous side, however, even
in these days of sober decorum,
one fully realizes after glancing
through a collection of sketches which the
late Sir Frank Lockwood made within their
precincts. But litigants seldom see this
humorous side, and nearly all the published
pencillings of the popular member for York
have been of his Parliamentary life.

At the same time it may be at once
admitted that the finest humour of the Law
Courts is of the unconscious kind. Perhaps
the leading (unreported) case of this kind
arose out of Mr. Justice North’s sweet

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innocence. His lordship was summing up a
case of assault upon a policeman.

“ It is quite certain,” he observed, “ that
prisoner and prosecutor had been on the best
of terms, addressing each other by the
Christian name”—it had been proved that
on the previous night the prisoner, in passing
the policeman, had said, “ Good night,
Robert.”

As a rule judges’ jokes, unlike lovers’
perjuries, would not excite the laughter of
Jove, It was under the provocation of a
very hot afternoon that Mr. Justice Barnes,
in reply to an inquiry from Mr. Inderwick,
Q.C., as to whether his lordship intended to
continue Admiralty work, facetiously re¬
marked, “ Yes, I shall stop at the seaside till
the end of the term.”

Mr. Justice Kekewich, in all
weathers, tries to relieve the
dulness of Chancery work, and
now and again he is successful.
He was trying an action, “ Heap
v . Pickles,” and some confusion
arose as to the various members
of defendant’s family. “ They’re
a mixed lot,” his lordship
quietly observed, amid the ap¬
proving smiles of the Court.

Among present-day members
of the Bench, Mr. Justice Chitty
has achieved the most brilliant
piece of judicial wit. Some
pieces of plaster fell one day
in his court, and all eyes were
raised apprehen¬
sively to the ceil¬
ing. “ Fiat justitia,
ruat coelum,”
promptly said the
judge, who sat
unmoved. Mr.
Justice Chitty is
the only judge
who was ever a
match for the
truculent clever¬
ness of Mr. J. F.
Oswald, Q.C., in
his junior days.

Those who hap¬
pened to see a
certain farce at a
London theatre a
year or so ago will
remember that its

HUMOUR IN THE LAW COURTS.

747

wittiest lines were uttered by a pseudo¬
magistrate in a police-court scene.

“ Now, I’ll address myself to the furniture,”
said a voluble stage barrister, after a pause
to take breath.

“ You’ve been doing that for some time,”
said the magistrate.

Well, this little incident actually occurred
one day in the High Court of Justice, in a
bill of sale case, its victim being Mr. Oswald,
and its hero Mr. Justice Chitty.

Mr. Justice Kay once attempted in a
similar fashion to crush the audacious young
barrister with a disastrous result—to himself.

“ I can teach you law, sir, but I cannot
teach you manners,” the judge angrily
asserted.

“ That is so, my lord,” was the meek, yet
merciless, reply.

Breach of promise cases, as the first of the
accompanying sketches would suggest, are a
perennial source of amusement in the courts.
Barristers of the Serjeant Buzfuz type are, it
need hardly be said, almost as extinct as the
dodo, but in such cases I have heard more
than one burst of eloquence to which Sir
Frank Lockwood’s travesty would have done
no injustice. Mr. Wildey Wright, for
instance, was once heard to declare that
“ the defendant by his dastardly conduct
has cruelly cast my fair client adrift on the
sea of life,” and so on for four, five, or ten
minutes, amid the weeping of the plaintiff, a
fat widow of fifty, and the tittering of the
junior Bar.

But it is the poetry of “the parties,” of
course, rather than the perorating of counsel,
which is usually most entertaining in these
actions. Some of the judges, however, turn
a callous ear to the poetry and will not join
in the mirth which a barrister will generally
try to evoke from
it. After quoting
freely from the
defendant’s effu¬
sions, a certain Q.C.
happened to refer
to the f?‘os and cons
of the case.

“ I suppose,” the
judge interrupted,

“that we have
already had the
cons. We shall be
exceedingly glad to
hear the prose.”

For poetical
quotations some
barristers have a

great weakness. They will quote the most
flippant verse in illustration of the most
serious arguments. Thus Mr. Pember, Q.C.,
when appearing some time ago for an
electric lighting company, and contending
against several rival enterprises, dared to
speak the following Gilbertian lines :—

On mature consideration
And careful meditation

Of all the petty projects that have here been shown,
Not a scheme in agitation
For this world’s amelioration
Has a grain of common sense in it except my own.

It was one of the present Lords of Appeal,
if I remember rightly, who startled the dull
serenity of his court by a quotation from
“Hudibras.” In a “light and air” action a
scientific witness attempted to prove the
exact amount of light which would be
obstructed by a proposed new building, and
his lordship, losing patience with such
pedantry, compared him with the philosopher
in Butler’s satire :—

In mathematics he w r as greater
Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater ;

For he by geometric scale
Could take the size of pots of ale ;

Resolve by sines and tangents straight
If bread and butter wanted weight.

Mr. Murphy, Q.C., who may have uncon¬
sciously posed for Sir Frank’s picture of the
forensic giant overwhelming his opponent
with his “ Oi object,” has added a good deal
to the gaiety of the courts. His name as
well as his figure has occasioned jokes. In
a patent boiler case, for instance, Sir Henry
James once had to define to the Lords of
Appeal the exact meaning of the word
“steaming.” Just as he was explaining and
illustrating the technical point, Mr. Murphy

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

748

arrived in very hot haste and sat down by his
side.

“ We have, I suppose, all heard, my lords,
of the domestic operation known as steaming
potatoes,” said Sir Henry, and then added,
as he turned to the big, perspiring form of
his colleague in the case, “ but my learned
friend is" probably best acquainted
with that process.”

On the other hand, there are even
smaller men (both literally and meta¬
phorically) at the Bar than Sir Edward
Clarke and Mr. Charles Mathew,

Q.C., whose diminutive stature when
contrasted with burly clients in the
witness-box is apt to excite mirth.

The small barrister “protecting” a
big John Bull in Sir Frank Lock-
wood’s sketch has, in fact, often had
its actual counterpart in the courts.

There are certain recurring occa¬
sions on which frequenters of the
courts always expect some amount
of entertainment, the chief of these
being the “calling” of new Q.C.’s

within the Bar. It is an inviolable
convention that every barrister, on
whom “ silk ” has been conferred,
should make a tour of the courts
in his new gown, plus silk stockings
and knee-breeches. The unhappy
man, probably middle - aged and
father of a family, who generally
wears these latter articles for the
first time in his life, has to visit
each court in turn, bow to the
judge, and then to the amused
juniors, whose ranks he has just
left, accompanied by his clerk carry¬
ing the new silk hat and white
kid gloves which equally powerful
tradition obliges his employer
to present to him in honour
of the auspicious occasion.

One of these sketches was
evidently suggested to Sir Frank
Lockwood by the sight of an
inebriated defendant “ bully¬
ragging” the barrister who had
unsuccessfully prosecuted him.
At one time drunken witnesses
gave rise to a good deal of
mirth in the courts. But nowa-

HUMOUR IN THE LAW COURTS.

749

days judges take a sterner view of their
failings, and witnesses “ in their hiccups ”
are seldom called into the witness-box.

It was doubtless these changed circum¬
stances which led a well-known barrister to
make what was a unique application,
although it did not appear in the Times law
reports. The learned gentleman asked that
the evidence of a certain witness, who was
of intemperate habits, might be taken on
commission, because it was feared that the
refreshment-bar in the courts would prove
too great a temptation for the witness to
resist. The Court did not grant the appli¬
cation, but it forgave the jest.

Drowsy judges, on the other hand, still
occasionally call forth suppressed mirth.
That the judges should be so very human as
to doze during a dull case may in some
people excite indignation rather than their
sense of humour. Habitues of the court,
however, have never known serious conse¬
quences proceed from a judge’s siesta. The
worst offender appears to have the happy
knack of waking up the moment that any¬
thing of real importance
requires his attention,
thus sustaining the charit¬
able theory that a judge
can hear best with closed
eyelids.

Once, indeed, his forty
winks did put the judge
in a dilemma. A tele¬
gram was brought into
court for a member of
the jury. The usher
turned to the judge for
the permission without
which nothing can be
given to any of the twelve
good men and true. But
his lordship was asleep,
and no dexterous shifting
of books or loud cough¬
ing would awaken him.

At last, in despair, the official ventured to
hand the telegram to the juryman, who
covertly read it, fearing every second that his
lordship would suddenly open his eyes and
discover the misdeed. The incident began
with an “ audible smile,” and ended with a
sigh of relief on the part of the Court.

The etiquette of the Bar sometimes gives
rise to ludicrous incidents. It is essential,
for instance, to his locus sta?idi that a barrister
should be wearing wig and gown. In the
Divorce Court some time ago Mr. Justice
Barnes refused to see Mr. Bargrave Deane
because he was without these emblems
of professional dignity. He had hurriedly
entered the court on some small errand, to
find that the date of hearing an important
case in which he was engaged was under
discussion. On a momentary impulse Mr.
Bargrave Deane, wishing to correct a mis¬
statement, began to address the judge. But
his lordship at once stopped him with the
remark, “ You’re invisible to me, Mr.
Deane,” preserving all the time the only
grave countenance in the court.

The Old Bailey and the
Criminal Courts gener¬
ally have a distinctive
humour of their own. To
a number of young bar¬
risters the brightest side
of the Central Criminal
Court is seen in the dis¬
tribution of its “ soup.”
“ Soup ” is professional
slang for the prosecuting
briefs which are given
in turn by the Crown
to all the members of
the Old Bailey Bar Mess.
In “ Valse a la P?'osecu-
tion ” Sir Frank Lockwood
has strikingly symbol¬
ized the feelings of one
of these juniors who has
just won his first verdict.

■ E were all four of us—Rupert
Scriven, of the New York
World; George W. Wyllie, of
the U.S. Navy, his cousin;
Dudley K. Wauters, son of
the millionaire of the same
name ; and myself—sitting in the smoking-
room of the hotel with our after-breakfast
cigars, just one week after our great adventure
up the dome of St. Paul’s, when we held the
Golden Gallery against all comers for the
space of two nights and a day, in order to
see the “ dear Queen ” go by in all the pomp
and pride of her Jubilee.

Scriven was a trifle sulky. Miss Van
Toller, the pretty American girl who sat next
to him at dinner whenever her mother
did not do so, was at him all the time
to take her up to the Golden Gallery.
And it put him into an awkward position,
for he dared not go anywhere near St.
Paul’s, and yet he did not want to offend
the heiress.

“ I’m just about sick of St. Paul’s, anyway,”
he growled. “ It’s possible to have too much
even of a good thing.”

“Meaning Miss Van Toller?” asked
Dudley.

Scriven cocked his cigar up in one corner
of his mouth and said nothing, and just then
one of the coach horns sounded outside, and

he got up and went to the window to see the
coach start.

“ Handles ’em well,” said Wyllie, looking
out also.

“ It’s easy enough,” said Scriven. “Just
knack and nerve. Roads like a billiard-
table-”

“And any amount of fools around,” said
Wyllie, as a yellow motor-cab stole up from
behind the coach and stopped shuddering
under the startled leaders’ noses, and a
nervous cyclist came skidding into the motor-
cab, and went down with a crash.

“ I’d like to see the old boy there,” said
Scriven, indicating the purple-faced coach¬
man, who was gurgling with joy at the tribu¬
lations of his natural enemies, “ take a team
down the Nevada passes. He’d get some new
notions about driving—if he didn’t have a fit.”

“ Oh, come off, Scriven,” said I, for he
was rather given to spread-eagleism. “ I
bet you couldn’t take a team, not even an
ordinary two-horse penny ’bus, through the
City and back without getting into trouble.”

“Pouff! I’d do it on my head, as your
old ladies say to their magistrates.”

“ It would be a very interesting exhibition,”
I said; “and if I was cursed with Dudley
K.’s wealth I’d buy a ’bus and give you the
chance of teaching the London ’busmen
their business.”

. THE BENEVOLENT HUS.

75i

“ What’s that about Dudley Iv. ? ” asked
that lazy youth, from the depths of a big
leather chair.

“ Old Spread-eagle here wants to turn
’bus-driver to show the others how to do it
properly.”

“ Well, why doesn’t he do it ? Guess we
can knock spots off ’em-”

“ Paint,” I suggested.

“-if your ’bus-driving’s no livelier than

your papers.”

“ Hear, hear ! ” said Scriven, who had been
wrestling with Punch that morning and had
been in a gloomy frame of mind ever since.

“ Say, I’ve got an idea! ” burst out
Wauters, suddenly.

“ H’sh-h-h ! ” said Wyllie, “ it’s the first he
ever had. Let it hatch out and I’ll cable it
to his father. It’ll mean at least five thousand
a year on to his allowance.”

But Dudley was rocking to and fro with
his hands clasped round one knee, in the
process*of incubation.

“ Come up to my room, Rupe, old man,”
he said, jumping up suddenly. “ We’ll work
this out together.”

I had an appointment down Fleet Street,
and Wyllie, who dabbled in colours himself
a bit, decided to put in the*morning at the
National Gallery. So we did not meet the
others again until lunch-time.

• Wauters was evidently in a suppressed
fever of excitement. Scriven’s time was fully
occupied parrying Miss Van Toller’s requests
to be taken up to the Golden Ball. She saw
that for some reason he was against her
going; her chief object in life for the
moment, therefore, was to get him to take
her.

“ Come along to my room, boys,” said
Dudley, the moment dinner was finished.
“ We’ve got it all planned out—no end of a
lark, if we can work it out properly.”

“ Oxenham,” he burst out, as soon as we
had lighted up in his room, “ we want a ’bus,
a regular ordinary, garden-seat, Putney to
Whitechapel, penny-all-the-way, Benk-benk
’bus. Now, where can we get one—for a
week—with proper changes of horses, and all
hunk-a-dory ? If we can’t make this be¬
nighted old centre of civilization hum, write
me down a Croton water-bug. It’s my idea,
mind you, and I’m going to carry it through
or bust. Old Rupe’s going to be driver. I’m
going to be conductor. You two can be
anything you like, directors or checkers, or
just plain passengers. We don’t take any
fares, mind you, but instead we give every¬
body who boards the ’bus a little present of

some kind—bunch of flowers and so on.
How does it strike you ? ”

“ It’s magnificent,” I said, in reply to his
anxious look, “ if you can stand the racket.
You’ve got a return ticket home, haven’t
you ? ”

“ Yes. Why?”

“ Because Scriven will pile up such a load
of damages on the first journey, between
Mansion House Station and Bank Corner,
that you’ll be bust sky-high. I should make
it a limited company if I were you—small
capital—shares all issued fully paid—you
might even get out debentures on the ’bus,
and in common decency you ought to hand
every passenger an accident insurance policy
as soon as he climbs on board.”

“ Oh, go ’way,” said Dudley, with all the
wild enthusiasm of a discoverer, and the
blind eye of a patentee to the other side of
things; “ Rupe’ll do the driving all right, and
I take all the risks. Where’ll we get the
’bus?”

“ I’ll find you the ’bus,” I said ; “ it’ll have
to belong to someone who won’t be com¬
pletely ruined if it gets smashed. You’ll
probably have to give him an indemnity.”

“ That’s all right. How soon can you
get it ? ”

“ George and I will take a trot round this
afternoon. When do you want to start ? ”

“ Start fair Monday morning. Rupe wants
to go over the course, and I’ll have some
things to get.”

“ And as to payment ?—money not so
much an object as a-”

“ Comfortable ’bus,” broke in Dudley.
“ You’re sure you can get one ? ”

“You can get anything in London if
you’re ready to pay for it. I’ll get the ’bus
all right. Come along, George, and we’ll
go on a ’bus-hunt.”

It really was a very simple matter. We
walked down into Parliament Street, picked
out the dandiest hansom on the rank, and
told him to drive towards Marble Arch.
Before we got there we had the driver down,
and questioned him as to where the owner
of a pirate ’bus was to be found.

As soon as he was satisfied that the ques¬
tion was prompted by a genuine desire for
information, he drove us straight to a yard
in a by-street off Hammersmith Road, in
the neighbourhood of Brook Green, where
we found exactly what we wanted. And
the ’bus which stood in the yard had been
newly done up for the Jubilee, and looked
as near like the genuine article as red paint
and varnish could make it, and yet withal

75 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

there was somehow a rakish look about it
which differentiated it in some way from the
homely and innocent article of daily use,
though what the difference was I could not
for the life of me say. Maybe it was all
imagination.

An anxious-looking woman came out of
the back door of the house which gave on to
the yard, wiping her hands on her not over¬
clean apron, and eyeing us inquisitively.

“ Is this ’bus to let ? ” I asked.

“ How long do you want it for ? ”

“ For a week.”

“ A week ! ” she said, with the air of one
who was getting out of her depth. “ You’d
better see the master himself. Will you wait
a minute while I tidy him up ? ”

“ What’s wrong with him ? ” asked
George, sniffing something infectious.

“Too much Jubilee, that’s all,” said the
woman, snappishly; “blow the Jubilee, I
say.”

We smoked a cigarette and poked round
the yard, and looked somewhat distrustfully
at four mournful horses in the stable, and
then the woman announced that the master
was ready to
see us. ,

What the
master’s pre¬
vious state
may have been
we dared not
think. His
wife’s ministra¬
tions had not
succeeded in
rendering him
by any means
a tempting
object. Appar¬
ently he had
taken to his
bed after a
very bad night
out, and had
not been
shaved or
washed or
brushed for a
week. He had a discoloured eye and a
bruise on the cheek, and his undress
uniform, as he sat up in his bed, was hidden
under a hastily assumed coat, which was
buttoned close up to his throat.

“ What d’yer want wiv the ’bus, gents ? ” he
asked, hoarsely.

“ Well, we want a ’bus for a week. What’s
your idea of price ? ”

“ What yer goin’ to do wiv it ? ”

“ Just drive it down town and back.”

He looked at us suspiciously. “ For a
week ? ”

“Yes, for a week.”

“Oh, come orf, gents!” he said. “Now
what ’r’ y’ up to? What’s the little gime? ”

“We’ll explain the little game if we come
to terms,” I said; “no need to if we don’t.
Now, what’s your idea of price ? ”

“For a whole week? ” he said, and we
punctuated his questions with nods; “ four
hosses a day you’d need—put up ’ere each
night—pay in advance each dye—leave a
deeposit on the ’bus and the ’osses—and
make good all damages—say, ten pounds a
dye.”

“Say twenty,” I said, “and we’ll call it
two.”

“ Oh, come orf, gents ! I can do better’n
that wiv it myself.”

“Not while you’re lying here.”

“ Oh, I ain’t a-goin’ to lie ’ere much longer,
you bet.”

“ Well, suppose we say two-ten ? ”

“Oh, come orf—say five, gents, and it’s a

go. It’s ruination, just bloomin’, blue ruina¬
tion, but I likes to ’blige folks w’en I can.”

“ We’ll say three,” I said, moving towards
the door, “and we’ll pay a pound for. the
week for yard-money, and not a cent more.
Now, is it a go ? ”

“ It’s a go, gents. Now, tell us what you
want it for.”

I explained that for something in the

‘ WHAT D’YER WANT WIV THE ’BUS, GENTS ?

THE BENEVOLENT HUS.

753

nature of a wager an American gentleman
had undertaken to drive the ’bus in the City
for a week, and that, if he smashed the ’bus
or anything else, he lost his wager and made
good all damages.

The man’s eyes glistened sportively.

Incidentally, I mentioned that no fares
would be taken.

“ Tike no fares ? ” he gasped. “ Why, it’s
a fair tempting o’ Providence.”

“Well, you see, there’d be the license, I
suppose, if we took any fares.”

“That’s so. By Jinks, gents, I’d like to
be there to see the fun ! No fares ! Gosh !
if you’d told me there was no fares I’d been
inclined to knock off ten bob a day just t’
think o’ them other fellows’ noses bein’ put
out o’ j’int, and t’ see their eyes fall out. No
fares !—by gosh ! ”

“Well, perhaps you’ll be better by then.
What’s wrong ? ”

He looked up at us, and said, cautiously,
“ It’s a dead sure go at three quid a day ?
All clear and no droring back ? ”

“Three quid a day,” I said, “and no
drawing back.”

“ Well, I broke me bloomin’ leg falling off
the bloomin’’bus day after Jub’lee, an’ I’m
stuck here for a month. That’s w’at’s wrong,
gents, an’ your three quid a day’ll be a nice
little help till it jines up again.”

“ That’s all right. If you’ll get me some
paper and a pen we’ll put it all down in black
and white. Then there can be no mistake.”

That was how we got the ’bus, and on the
Monday morning we all four set off for the
yard, and found the ’bus awaiting us in full
working order.

Wauters and Scriven had been full of
business and mysteries for the last few days,
and they would not even admit Wyllie and
myself to their confidence. They bade us just
wait and leave it all to them, and we would
see what we would see. Dudley K. had
never been so busy before in the whole
course of his life, and such an air of
business-like animation pervaded him that it
is doubtful if his own stepmother would have
known him. Scriven, used to the rush and
bustle of journalistic life, took matters more
coolly. He had been over the course three
or four times, and had every confidence in
himself.

These two chief actors in the little comedy
had dressed for their parts in somewhat
sportive light tweeds of most elegant cut,
brown bowler hats, tan boots, painfully
striking new tan gloves, and remarkable
button-holes. They were eminently well

Vol. xvii.—95.

pleased with themselves, and when Dudley
had borrowed a hammer and some tacks
from Mrs. Pirate, and had, with his own new
tan kids, nailed to the mast which stood by
the side of the driver a- very elegant little
silken Star and Stripes, and had tacked over
the table of fares inside an artistically de¬
signed notice which boldly stated, “ All
Fares Free To-day,” he went into the
house at Mr. Pirate’s strenuous request, to
have his hand shaken by that worthy, who
looked more unshaven and tousled than
ever, and to be told by him that he was a
genu-ine sportsman.

Then he sprang on to the step, as to the
manner born, shouting, “ Now, gents, all
aboard ! Benk—Benk—Benk ! Here y’are,
sir! Here y’are! Benk — Benk—Benk!”
rang the bell imperatively half-a-dozen times,
and, as Wyllie and I scrambled in, the Bene¬
volent ’Bus started on its wild career.

Scriven tooled the team down the Ham¬
mersmith Road for a mile or two, “just to
learn their paces, and to see how they
answered the helm,” as Wyllie said, and
then we turned towards town, and the fun
began.

We told Dudley he was quite the nicest
conductor we had ever seen, the cleanest and
smartest and best dressed, and not bad look¬
ing on the whole.

“You bet your boots that’s what all the
girls on this route will be saying before the
week’s out. You just wait and see, my
chickens ! Dudley K. Wauters is running
this show, and Dudley K. knows what he’s
about.”

He rang, the bell once or twice just to see
that Scriven up aloft was fully alive to his
duties and responsibilities, and was as pleased
and proud of his control as a newly-appointed
captain of his first command.

“ Hist! ” I whispered, “ here’s fare number
one. Wyllie, get up on deck and help
Scriven. I’ll see to Dudley K.”

“ Hyde Park, miss ? Here you are. Allow
me ! ”

She was a very pretty girl and very nicely
dressed, and Dudley K. handed her in with
an air of the most polished and courteous
deference. She went up to the front corner
seat without noticing the announcement about
the fares, and Dudley K. bent all his attention
on scooping in other passengers.

Occasionally, however, he turned round to
glance at his pretty first acquisition, and it was
during one of these momentary lapses from
the strict path of duty that an old gentleman
coming along a side-street signalled to him to

754

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

stop, and when he reached the corner,
bellowed like a fog-horn, and came hobbling
after the ’bus in a fury of indignation.

“ What d’ye mean by not stopping—you—

you-? ” he could find neither words nor

breath sufficient for his feelings. “ Haven’t
you got any eyes in your head, man ? I'll
report you as soon as I get to town. Served
me just the same trick yesterday—ruffian !
It’s a perfect outrage ! ”—this last to me.

“ Very reprehensible,” said I, soothingly.

“ Reprehensible ! ” said the old gentleman,
savagely, and still panting; “outrageous is
what I call it—perfectly outrageous.”

“I ask a thousand pardons,
sir, for my momentary negli¬
gence,” said Dudley K., in his
most cultivated manner, “and
I beg to assure you that it was
no intentional slight to which
you were subjected. You see,”
he said, with a confidential and
engaging smile, “ this is my very
first appearance on this or any
other ’bus.”

“ Bless my soul! ” said the
old gentleman, and his red and
yellow bandanna stopped half¬
way up to his damp nose, and
his mouth hung open with
surprise. Then he looked
across at me again and shook
his head, and said, “Drink, I
suppose. Great pity.”

“Yes,” I said, with a melan¬
choly, assenting wag ; “ very
sad, very sad indeed.” And
Dudley K. scorched me with
a look, and then turned to
gather in a very stout lady, who
brought in with her a strong
odour of heliotrope and two
very slim - waisted daughters,
whose elegantly - compressed
figures left Nature nowhere,
and whose somewhat super¬
cilious bearing conveyed an
impression of resigned sufferance of the
public exhibition of the over-ample pro¬
portions of their capacious parent.

“ Piccadilly Circus, young man—don’t for¬
get ! ” wheezed the lady of parts, as she
lowered herself into a seat and somewhat
disturbed the trim of the ’bus.

“Right, madam, I will bear it in mind.
Now, then” — to the outsiders — “Hyde
Pawk, Piccadilly, Charing Cross, Benk—
Benk—Benk—all the way—Benk—Benk
—Benk ! ”

The ’bus filled up rapidly both inside and
out. Scriven had so far run into nothing,
and had dutifully responded to all Dudley
K.’s calls upon him, and we were getting
along as nicely and comfortably as could be,
when suddenly the old gentleman broke out
with a loud “ God bless my soul! ” of the
most concentrated amazement.

“ W—w—w—what’s the meaning of that ?
Here, you, young man, what’s the meaning
of that, sir ? ” and he pointed at the notice
about the fares with his stick, which quivered
so with astonishment that it nearly went
into the stout lady’s eye, and she put up a

fat, deprecating hand to ward it off—
“ What’s it mean, young man ? ”

“ It means, my dear sir, that all passengers
travel free to-day. No fares whatever are
taken.”

“ Bless my soul ! ” said the old gentleman.
“Who’s gone mad? What’s the meaning
of it ? ”

“ Any distance ? ” asked the capacious
lady.

“ Any distance, madam,” replied Dudley
K., with a graceful inclination towards her.

w —w—w— what’s the meaning of that?

THE BENEVOLENT HUS.

755

“ Then put us down as near to Wallis’s as
you go, young man. Don’t forget—Wallis’s.
We may as well have a look round there and
the churchyard first ”—to her daughters.

“ With pleasure, madam,” said Dudley
K., with his best cotillon bow, not under¬
standing in the slightest her reference to the
churchyard or where she wanted to go. He
tried to catch my eye, but I was engaged in
conversation with the old gentleman.

“ Some new advertising idea, I suppose ? ”
he said.

“ Looks like it,” said I, “ though I don’t
at present see where the advertisement
comes in.”

“ Oh, you will before you’re allowed to get
off—you’ll see,” he chuckled. “ Say, young
man, will you be running again to-morrow on
the same lines ? ”

“ We shall, sir, yes,” said Dudley K., cheer¬
fully—“if we're—spared.”

“ Bless my soul! ” said the old gentleman,
again. “ What a very strange young man ! ”

With much difficulty, because of a muffler
and several coats in which the cord got
entangled, he extracted a pair of glasses
and hooked them over his nose. He re¬
garded Dudley K. through them steadfastly,
and took in all his points as if he were a
strange new beast, then folded them up with
a puzzled air and blinked across at me, and
said “ Humph ! ”

The passengers were all in a state of high
good humour, and regarded one another
with the tentative/vacuous smiles of complete
strangers united suddenly in one common
feeling by some unexpected happening. The
old gentleman even ventured on a smiling
remark to one of the capacious lady’s much-
compressed daughters.

“All fares free to-day ! Really, it’s about
the most amusing thing I ever heard of.”

“Very amusing!” said the young lady,
with a frosty little smile.

“ I don’t think,” he said, looking round
with a comprehensive paternal beam, which
ended with his fair neighbour again, “ that I
ever had a free ride on a ’bus before, not at
all events since I was a very small-”

His biographical indiscretions were cut
suddenly short by a spasmodic attempt on
the part of our pretty first passenger to
attract the attention of the conductor to
the fact that she was being carried away past
Hyde Park Corner.

“ Want to get out, my dear? ” chirped the
old gentleman. “ Allow me ! ” and the point
of his stick planted an imperative call to
duty between Dudley KPs shoulder-blades.

Dudley turned, with a somewhat injured
air, while his left hand curled up behind his
back to remove the possible mark of the
summons. When he saw the pretty girl
fluttering down the narrow passage" between
the other people’s knees towards him, how¬
ever, he awoke to a due sense of his forget¬
fulness. He rang such a peal on the bell
that the cord broke in his hand, and then
he handed the young lady off on to the
side-walk with the air of a master of cere¬
monies, and bowed, hat in hand, while he
made his apologies.

“ I ask a thousand pardons,” I heard him
say, while every eye in the ’bus was bent
upon them to see what he gave her in the
shape of an advertisement; “I promise you
it shall not occur again.” Then, while she
tripped away with a rosy face, he swung him¬
self on to the step with a “ Right-away ! ”
and set himself to mending the bell-rope.

“Extraordinary!” said the old gentleman
across to me. “I didn’t see him give her
anything in the nature of an advertisement.
What do you suppose is the meaning of it ? ”

“ I’m sure I can’t say. Perhaps he
whispered it to her. I saw the young lady
smiling.”

He looked meditatively at me for a while,
as the ’bus rumbled on along Piccadilly, and
then said:—

“Yes, maybe that’s the trick. It’s a funny
idea, but I’ll know at the Circus. I get out
there.”

He got out at the Circus and waited with
a knowing smile for the expected revelation.
But the vacant spaces in and on the ’bus
were occupied in a moment, and as Dudley
K. touched his hat to him, and sprang on to
the steps and started the ’bus, I could see
the old fellow’s “ Bless my soul ! ” on his
lips, as the smile died out of them, and he
stood gazing after us with a dazed look of
injured incredulity.

The expressions, facial and vocal, of the
new passengers as their eyes lighted on the
notice-board, and wandered wonderingly
round the smiling faces of the initiated, were
amazingly funny, but it would be impossible
to chronicle them all.

As we drew down Fleet Street towards the
shoals and quicksands of the City, I inquired
from the conductor if there was any room on
top, and learning that there was, I climbed
the stairs, and sat down alongside Wyllie on
the back seat.

I found that he had been enjoying himself
quite as much as we had inside.

“ It’s simply immense ! ” he whispered.

756

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

“When Dudley came up and quietly said,

‘No fares taken to-day, ladies and gents,’ I
nearly had a fit at the way they took it. It
just fairly paralyzed them. At first they sat
and looked at him with their mouths open,
then when he’d gone down they all began
talking twenty to the dozen, and asking if he
was drunk, or what was the game he was up
to. Oh, I tell you it’s a great scheme this of
old Dud’s. Should never have thought he had
it in him. Scriven’s doing well, too, isn’t he ? ”

“ He’s done first-rate so far, but the ticklish
bits are coming. Wait till we get to Mansion
House Station. From there to the Bank is
the worst bit in the whole course.”

However, Scriven got through all right,
and the meteor flag fluttered proudly through
the thick of the traffic, and suffered no dis¬
honour. But when at last we drew up in the
comparative calm of the backwater outside
Broad Street Station the driver’s face was
beaded with perspiration, and his elegant tan
gloves were in shreds.

“ For Heaven’s sake, old man,” he gasped
to me, “ get me the biggest whisky-and-soda
they can make. I swallowed the stub of
my cigar by mistake when that brutal dray
nearly ran into us just off the Mansion
House. And, Wyllie, you run into yon
shop and buy me two pairs of the strongest
driving-gloves they keep in stock — number
io’s.

“ It’s a deuce of a strain,” he said, as he
sighed into the empty tumbler; “ not that
the poor beggars pull much—nervousness,
I suppose. I feel as if I’d been lifting this
darned old caravan off other people’s rigs
with my two hands and legs ever since we
started. It’ll come easier after a bit.”

Dudley K. came up on top, and we all
compared notes, and enthusiastically con¬
gratulated him on the brilliancy of the first
idea he had ever had of his very own.

We accomplished the return journey in
safety also, and quite the most amusing
experience in the course of it was with a
market woman, who hailed us in the Strand,
and tendered for transport a huge basket of
roses.

“ Here you are, miss,” said Dudley K.,
jovially, as he caught hold of the basket.

“ Miss, indeed ! ” snorted the irate lady of
flowers, as she sank into a seat; “’ere, young
man, don’t you go a-callin’ of your betters
names as don’t belong to ’em. I’m a missis,
I am. Married in church all tight and
straight, and got my lines at home, if you
wants to see ’emr Miss, indeed ! ” with an
indignant sniff.

“ Madam, a thousand pardons ! ” said
Dudley K., with a bow. “Your agility and
the sweet burden you bore reminded me
inevitably of the goddess Flora. Hence my
address ! ”

“I’ll floor yer if yer don’t shet up,” said
the lady. “ I didn’t arsk for yer address, an’

I don’t want it. Yer drunk, that’s w’at’s the
matter wi’ you. Give me any more o’ yer
sass an’ I’ll report yer. See ? ”

“ Madam, I apologize and retire ! ”

“ Yes, yer’d better.” And she twitched
her crooked bonnet straight and adjusted her
shawl combatively, and glared round at the
rest of us with a challenging eye, and the
discomfited Dudley fled up on top to hide
his defeat.

She continued to fire off objurgations at
him at spasmodic intervals when he came
down again, but the crown of the joke came
when she arrived at her destination.

“Now, then—you—you drunk! Put me
darn at Perceval Street.”

“Yes, madam,” said Dudley. Then—
foreseeing trouble from his ignorance of the
locality—“Would you be so good as to tell
me when we get there ? ”

“ Tell yer w’en we git there ? ” she re¬
peated, in a tone of extra-concentrated
sarcasm. “W’y, yer there now, you—you
dumhead ! Can’t yer see it ? Are yer blind
drunk ? ”

“Ah, I beg your pardon, madam. You
see, I am new to this route. Allow me”
—as the ’bus came to a stand and she
descended.

Scriven was watching the disembarkation
by means of the reflection in a shop-window.
Without waiting for the signal he started
the ’bus just a second too soon, and the
heavy basket of roses, which Dudley was
transferring to its owner, dropped to the
ground, and shot its contents far and wide
like the bursting of a fragrant bomb.

“ Nar yer done it! ” cried Flora, “ yer done
it a fair treat ! I knowed you was drunk.
Di’n’ I sye so ? Who d’yer think’s goin’ to
pye me fur them there flars, eh ? ”

“I am, madam,” said Dudley, rising to
the occasion. “ Will this reimburse you for
the damage done ? ” and he handed her a
sovereign.

She looked at the sovereign and then at
him, with her mouth wide open. Then she
bit the coin, and then she spat on it for luck,
and then, recovering her tongue, if not the
full use of her wits, she gasped.

“ Drunk as a sojer, an’ it’s in gaol ye’ll be
this night,” and picked up her basket and

THE BENEVOLENT HUS.

757

•‘‘nar yer done it!’ cried flora.”

made off as fast as she could go with
her share of the plunder.

And in imagination—and so real was it
that I had to rub my eyes to make sure that
it was only imagination—I saw the figure of
the old gentleman, with his eyes fairly hanging
out with astonishment as he looked after the
retreating ’bus, and I saw his lips as they
whispered, “ Bless my soul! What a very
extraordinary young man ! ”

I doubt if any four dinners were enjoyed
with rarer appetites than were ours that day.
In answer to her very pointed inquiries, I
heard Scriven describing to the heiress with
a minute labouring of detail, which in itself
was highly suspicious, the delightful coach
drive we had been having to St. Albans and
back. And in answer to her further inquiries,
I heard him tell her that the upper reaches
of the tower of St. Paul’s were still closed to
the general public. The after-dinner cigars,
too, and the recurring reminiscences of the
day’s doings, were also much enjoyed by
three of us at all events. Scriven’s hands and
the calves of his legs were still very sore, and
he averred that he could feel the unin¬
tentionally swallowed stub of his cigar still

smouldering inside him, and it
needed many blended sodas to
quench the flame, and to
neutralize the effect of the con¬
centration of nicotine.

Ten o’clock next morning found
us en route again, and this time
Dudley had three long flat boxes
beside him, under the staircase
which led up to the roof; and
inside the ’bus, beneath the notice-
board about the freedom from
fares, was another notice which
stated positively, but enigmatic¬
ally : “This is Flower Day.”

We very soon came across our
pretty first passenger looking
anxiously for a ’bus, though I
would not like to say for our ’bus.
But she recognised ns at once,
and the rosy smile which pervaded
her face made her prettier than
ever. Dudley, however, had some
difficulty in persuading her to
accept our hospitality again, and
when at last she did get in, and
took her seat up at the far end,
he opened the topmost flat box
and ran his eyes rapidly over
the exquisite masses of colour
inside, and in a moment, with a
deferential bow, handed her a
tiny Douquet of deep red roses, made up
with a few lilies and maidenhair, all neatly
fitted into a slender filigree metal-holder. She
was dressed in light grey, and the flowers
contrasted admirably with her costume.
But-

“ Oh, excuse me, I could not think of
accepting them,” she said, with still more
heightened colour.

Dudley pointed to the notice, and said,
“ My instructions are to present everybody
who gets on the ’bus to-day with a bunch of
flowers. See ! ” and he flicked open the
boxes one after another, and the pretty eyes
opened wide with amused astonishment.

He saw the old gentleman coming down
his side-street, and dutifully drew up for him.

“Well, young man. You’re here again?”

“ At your service, sir ! ” said Dudley,
saluting him with a bow.

“ Finding your feet, eh ? ”

“Very much so,” said Dudley, presenting
him, as he sat down, with a button-hole of
tea-rose and delicate fern fronds.

“ Bless my soul ! What’s this ?—Peace¬
offering ? ”

“ Company’s orders, sir,” and he pointed

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

75S

to the notice alongside the pretty blushing
face of passenger number one.

The old gentleman recognised her and
noticed her bunch of flowers. He recog¬
nised me also, and noticed my bunch of
flowers. He bowed to us both and gasped,

“ God bless my soul ! What’s the meaning
of it all ? ”

Just then a suppressed whoop from Dud¬
ley, which died into a vigorous chuckle,
announced the advent of the stout helio¬
trope lady with her two compressed daughters,
and a thin, elderly lady friend and her stout,
well-proportioned daughter, who had evi¬
dently been brought to see the fun, and for
the space of three minutes Dudley was
kept busy suiting bouquets to customers,
which he did in a way that spoke of con¬
siderable training and a very pretty taste.

“ Why, we’re quite a family party,” said
Mrs. Heliotrope, beaming round on us all
as she recognised us one after the other.

“ Just exactly what I was thinking, madam,”
said the old gentleman, with a responsive
smile. “ Exactly what it all means or who’s
crazy I can’t make out, but we seem to be
the beneficiaries, so I suppose we mustn’t
grumble.”

The next arrival was, however, less essential
to the enjoyment of our happy family than a
stranger would have been—no less a person¬
age, indeed, than our yesterday’s Lady of
Flowers, and Dudley K. went the colour of
autumn sumach when he saw her.

She had her basket with her, and Dudley
had some difficulty in accommodating it
under his staircase. She had been too much
occupied in boarding the ’bus and seeing to
the safe storage of her impedimenta to pay
any special attention to her surroundings.
The presence of the other well-dressed
women in such close proximity to her caused
her to assume an air of defiance and resent¬
ment, which found outlet, both in tone and
words, when Dudley graciously presented her
with a bouquet from his box.

“ Wot’s this ? ” she asked. “ I don’ want
none o’ yer flars. W’en I wants flars I can
buy ’em, thenk Gawd ! ” Then, as her eyes
rested resentfully on Dudley, a sudden light
of recognition illumined her. “ ’Elio ! that
you, my dandy? Got over it, ’ave you, and
kep’ out the hands of the perlice too ? Well,
you be keerful. I got my eye on you, my
lad. Next time you starts calling lydies
nymes, and then upsets ’em in the road, I
puts the bobbies on to yer, sure. See ? ”

This made Dudley so extremely uncom¬
fortable that I unwisely interfered, with the

result that I myself became the butt of the
lady’s sarcasms.

“You are not bound to accept the com¬
pany’s little present unless you want to,” I
said. “As 1 understand it, the conductor
has been instructed to give everyone getting
on to this ’bus a bouquet or a button-hole.
Therefore he gave one to you along with the
other ladies.”

“ Owl An’ who are you, mister? Are
you the little dandyman’s keeper ? I didn’t
speak to you. I ain’t been interjuiced.”

“ But we have met before,” I said. “ I
happened to see the little accident yesterday
when your flowers were unfortunately spilled
through the ’bus starting too soon, and unless
I am mistaken the conductor paid you their
value many times over.”

“ Ow ! Bragged about it, did ’e ? Well,
that ain’t any think to his credit.”

“No, he didn’t; I saw it all with my own
eyes.”

“ Ow ! Well, take my ’dvice, mister, and
mind yer own bisness.”

“ Thank you ! ” said I.

“ Don’t menshn it,” said Flora, and sniffed
disdainfully and rearranged her shawl.

Then an abstracted checker nipped on
to the ’bus and automatically demanded,

“ Tickets, please ! ”

We smiled at him pleasantly, and Dudley
K., with great presence of mind, handed him
a very charming button-hole of striped car¬
nations and asparagus fern. The man looked
round on us with a vacant stare, read the
notices, awoke to the fact that he was in the
enemy’s camp, and, still holding his flowers,
dropped off so hastily and heedlessly that he
was within an inch of being run over by a
hansom.

Then Scriven very nearly got us into
trouble with a policeman. Our driver did
something he ought not to have done, or left
undone something he ought to have done,
and Robert the Officious came climbing on
board to demand why the metal disc bearing
his number was not properly displayed.

Dudley presented him with a button-hole.
Scriven drove calmly on, explaining inter¬
mittently over his left shoulder that, as we
did not take any fares, he did not require a
license, and therefore had no number, and
therefore could not show it.

“Oh, gammon yer no fares! ” said the officer,
who was young and very smart. “ If yer don’t
ply for fares, what do yer ply for ? Come, now?”

“ Fun ! ” said Dudley K.

“ I’ll fun yer. I’ve a good mind to sum¬
mons you.”

THE BENEVOLENT ’BUS.

759

“ See here, constable, you are, I presume,
quite as well acquainted with the law as I
am,” said Scriven, in his top-loftiest manner.
“You know perfectly well you cannot sum¬
mon us without showing cause. Now, what
cause have you to show ? ”

“ Well, whatYye up to, anyway ? ” asked
the constable, who began to feel
that his youth and lack of experi¬
ence and want of knowledge
were, perhaps, after all, more pi

apparent than his smartness. (P f

unusually fine basket of her wares, and when
Dudley courteously presented her with a
second bouquet, she gave herself up to un¬
diluted enjoyment of the situation.

“Well,” she laughed, “if this don’t beat
everythink ! Say, I tykes it all back w’at I
said t’yer this mornin’. W’at be you up to,

‘ WELL, I’LL TAKE YER NAMES AND ADDRESSES.

“We’re driving for our own amusement.
Have you anything to say against it ? ”

“ Well, I’ll take yer names and addresses,
anyhow.”

“Will you, indeed? Conductor, take
down this officer’s number. We’ll very soon
see what Sir Edward has to say to it. We’ll
call at Scotland Yard with you on our return
journey if you’ll take a seat. Pray make
yourself comfortable.”

“ Yer a rum lot,” said the officer, “an’ I
must git back to my beat.”

“ Good-day,” said Scriven, and the enter¬
prising bobby disappeared along with his
button-hole.

It would take altogether too long to de¬
scribe in detail all the amusing happenings
of that second day. Every person who got
on the ’bus received a bouquet or a button¬
hole, and it was next to impossible to keep
straight faces at the surprised comments
which this and the freedom from fares gave
rise to.

On our return journey we were hailed once
more by our Lady of Flowers. I think she
had been waiting for us. She came on board
with a broad smile of satisfaction and an

anyhow? Are 'ee gone
crazy, or is it a jowke, or
a bet, or what is’t ? ”

Dudley winked at her
solemnly, and she slapped
her knees with her big red
hand, and vowed she would
travel by no other ’bus as
long as this one kept on
running.

The fame of the Benevolent ’Bus soon
began to spread as our passengers retailed
their strange but satisfactory experiences on
board of it. The little meteor flag began to
be looked out for and pointed at explana¬
torily, and many a biting sanasm was fired
at the impassive Scriven by drivers of ’buses
more regular and less philanthropically in¬
clined. He received them all with the most
imperturbable good humour, and a knowing
use of some of the strange little Masonic
signs of the fraternity which his keen eye had
picked up during his preliminary survey of
the course, and thereby furnished them with
infinite cause for wonderment.

On the third morning, our regular first
passenger, whom Dudley had affectionately
dubbed “My Queen,” had barely time to
take her seat, and to blushingly and diffi¬
dently accept a long curiously-shaped bottle
of old English lavender water, which was that
day’s present, before the ’bus was filled inside
and out by a bevy of highly delighted
maidens, who giggled and chattered so, when
their bottles were courteously handed to
them, that by closing my eyes I could almost
imagine myself in the parrot-house at the

760

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Zoo. I was the only mere man on board,
and whenever they looked at me they seemed
somehow to think the situation very much
funnier than it appeared to myself. There
seemed more of the fair sex about the streets

than I had ever
noticed at that
time of day
before. There
seemed a per¬
fect procession
of them jour¬
neying town-
wards. Wyllie

‘the ’bus was filled inside and out.”

explained afterwards that they were all waiting
for the ’bus, either actually standing and wait¬
ing or walking to meet it; but that as soon as
they saw that every seat was taken, they all
did their best to pretend it was something
else they had been on the look-out for, and
mostly turned and walked away without
another glance at the ’bus and their more
fortunate sisters.

When we reached the old gentleman’s
corner he was standing there waiting for us,
and seeing the state of the case he said :
“ Bless my soul ! ” and shook his umbrella at
us. Dudley, however, dropped off and
presented him with a bottle of scent, and we
left him carefully examining it, under the

belief that now he had got to the root of the
mystery.

Most of our fair riders stuck to their seats
all the way there and all the way back, and
thanked Dudley very prettily as they
descended and shook themselves out. They
were, every one of them, wild to know what
it all meant, but all they could get out of
Dudley, who was enjoying himself most
thoroughly, was : “ Company’s orders, miss ” ;
and when they tried further to learn what or
who the company was, a mysterious “ Ah ! ”
went but a very little way towards satisfying
the inordinate cravings of their curiosity.

Next day was scented soap day,
and the provision of the neat little
boxes of exquisite soap, without
any name whatever on either soap
or box, had given Master Dudley
more trouble than all the rest of the
little tokens put together. The very
idea of soap somehow suggested
advertisement, and not one of the
recipients but believed, when the
box was handed to them, that here
at last was the key to the puzzle.

One or two amusing things hap¬
pened on the fourth day of the
run. When “ My Queen” got out
at Hyde Park Corner a man swung
himself in and took her place. I
knew at a glance that he was a
professional bus-conductor, come to
spy out the land, and I watched him
with interest.

Dudley presented him with his box
of soap, and he held it and looked
at it as if it might contain dynamite.

“ Say, mister, wot’s this ? ”

‘ “ Soap,” said Dudley.

“Soap ! ” said the man. “ Ho!
W’at yer giving us ? W’at do I
want wiv a box of soap ? ”

Dudley shook his head to intimate that
whatever he might think wild horses should
not tear any expression of opinion out of him.

“ Whose soap is it ? ” asked the man.

“ Yours,” said Dudley, and the other began
carefully tearing off the outer wrappings of
the box and examining every scrap of the
paper to see where the advertisement came
in. Every eye in the ’bus was fixed upon him.
They were all aching with curiosity to find
out the same thing, but no one had cared to
tackle the question on the spot in this bare¬
faced fashion.

He examined the box inside and out. He
took out each piece of soap separately, and
examined it minutely. He held it up to the

THE BENEVOLENT HUS.

761

light, and looked through it. He smelt it.
1 half thought he was going to taste it.
Then he looked round at the eager, watching
eyes with a puzzled, pensive look on his face,
and said, “ Well, I’m dummed! there ain’t
nary sign of advertysement ’bout it. Say,
you—you in the tan kids, what you doin’ this
for ? Where does it come in ? Blamed if I
can see.”

“ Sorry ! ” said Dudley, suavely.

“ Is’t a new line yer a-pioneering wi’ that
blamed little spotty, stripy flag, or what is it ? ”

But Dudley only closed one eye, and
regarded him steadily with the other, and at
last the opposition took himself off.

That day, too, the fame of us having spread
far and wide, a reporter for a lively evening
paper boarded us, and exercised belligerent
rights of search for contraband of war or
anything which would work up into a
humorous half-column article. But we
tumbled to him at once, and to the intense
amusement of our other passengers, the
officials of the’bus were suddenly stricken
deaf and dumb. The exigent packet of soap
was pressed upon the importunate man of
many questions, but no single word in reply
could he extract from either driver or con¬
ductor. He travelled all the way to Liverpool
Street--where, in hopes of a loosening of
tongues, he accepted a whisky-and-soda—
and back to Fleet Street, where he descended
with facts enough from his own observation
for a racy article, which duly appeared next
day, but without one solitary scrap of infor¬
mation as to the why and where¬
fore of things.

While he was energetically trying
to pump Scriven up on deck,

Dudley was busy with the frequently-
moistened stub of a very black
pencil down below, and presently
he climbed the stairs and pinned
on to the driver’s back the follow¬
ing notice:—

“ Please don’t
speak to the man
at the reins, or
he’ll run into
something and
capsize the show.”

“ Well, you’re
the funniest lot I
ever came across,”
was the reporter’s
valediction as he
skipped off the’bus,
with his box of
soap in his pocket.

Vol. xvii.—96.

Thereupon Dudley drawled, “ Thanks, so
much ! So glad to have made your acquaint¬
ance ! ” and tendered him another box of
soap, which he declined with language.

That night at dinner Miss Van Toller, in
her conversation with Scriven, was full to
overflowing of the subject of the ’Bus. She
had heard about it from a friend of hers who
had ridden on it and been given a bottle of
scent the day before, and she was just wild
to meet that ’bus and ride on it.

“ No one knows what on earth it all means,”
she said, “ but the men who are running it
are elegantly dressed and really quite
gentlemanly in manner and appearance.
They don’t take any fares, and they
give some new thing away every day to
every passenger. It’s just immense, and
I’m just dying to find out all about it.
Now, won’t you take me on that ’bus on
Saturday, Mr. Scriven ? If you don’t
promise, I shall begin to think that you are
the most disobliging man I ever met. I’m
aching to go up to the top of St. Paul’s, and
you won’t take me. I’m dying to go on this
funny ’bus, and you won’t take me. I don’t
think I shall ever ask you to do another
thing for me as long as I live.”

“Boys !” said Scriven, when we had settled
down in the smoking-room, “we’ve got to
stop this. When Mam—when Miss Van
Toller wants to get on to that ’bus, I’m off it.
To-morrow must be the last day of the fun,
and on Saturday I’ll take Miss Van Toller
out to hunt up the ’bus that will not come.

“ i’m dying to go on this funny ’bus. and you won’t take me."

762

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

It’s pretty well worked out, anyhow. There’s
no reason that I know of why Rupert Scriven
should mortgage the whole of his bright and
golden future even for the sake of Dudley
K.’s great idea. If this ’bus runs on Saturday,
Oxenham here or Wyllie will have to steer it.”

We hastily disclaimed any slightest wish to
pilfer one single leaf from his laurels, and
Scriven smiled knowingly and said :—

“ Oh, well, I’ve had enough of it. I’ve
shown you fellows that an American can
drive a team in London without absolutely
wrecking the City, and I’m-free to confess
there’s not much play about it. It’s deuced
hard work, and the man who says it isn’t has
never tried it.

“ Nice kind of fool I would look,” he went
on, after a few minutes of smoky meditation,

“ if Poppa Van Toller heard I was driving
stage in London.”

“ H’mph ! ” grunted Dudley K., from the
depths of his lounging chair, “ drove stage
himself in New York once upon a time, did
old Van, and glad to get doing it.”

“ He does not refer to it, my boy. He
has the smallest sense of humour and the
biggest head for dollar-making of any man I
know. Maybe the two things don’t run
together.”

“That’s so,” murmured Dudley, as one
who knew of his own experience.

As the Benevolent ’Bus evidently could not
run without a driver, and as Scriven flatly
refused to drive it on the Saturday, having
pledged himself to go with Miss Van Toller
to hunt it up on that day, it was decided
that Friday’s run should be the last.

For that day Dudley’s gifts had taken the
form of an exceedingly neat little carved ivory
paper-knife, each one engraved with the
Wauters’ crest—a Croton water-bug—and
their family motto, “ Creep on ” ; and, for the
final outburst, he had provided a quantity of
the very pretty little silken Stars and Stripes,
similar to the one which he had nailed to the
forepeak of the ’bus. He decided, therefore,
to make a clearance by giving every passenger
on Friday two presents instead of one, and
the satisfaction and mystification which
resulted almost reconciled him to the loss of
the Saturday’s run.

The most amusing feature of Friday’s
doings, in addition to the regular features,
which were, if anything, more amusing than
ever, was the fact that nearly every ’bus we
met had a small American flag flying at its
little mast-head. But, whereas our passengers
were solid chunks of mystified enjoyment,
and every face was . beaming like a rose, the

faces of the passengers on the other ’buses
were dour and gloomy, and they eyed us as
we passed with mingled looks of disappoint¬
ment and curiosity. They scanned our ’bus
very closely to see wherein it differed from
theirs. The only difference was that ours
was the genuine original Benevolent ’Bus, and
theirs was not. So marked were their dis¬
appointment and their curiosity, that our
passengers came at last to roar with delight
whenever another ’bus flying the Stars and
Stripes came in sight, and this did not make
the passengers on the other ’bus enjoy them¬
selves any more than they were doing. I
believe, indeed, that this sailing under false
colours led to some very lively, not to say
heated, displays of temper on the part of the
deluded passengers, who, as a rule, absolutely
refused to pay any fares whatever, and
roundly accused their conductors of annex¬
ing for their own benefit the gifts which they
supposed should have come to them. But
for that we could hardly be held responsible.

At six o’clock we drove the Benevolent
’Bus home to its stable for the last time,
hauled down the flag, settled with its de¬
lighted owner, and took a couple of hansoms
back to our hotel.

On Saturday evening, at dinner, Miss
Mamie Van Toller energetically expressed
her opinion that it was all flim-flam about
that ’bus that took no fares and gave away
presents.

“ They told us it carried an American flag,”
she said, somewhat heatedly, “ and we got on
five different ’buses-”

“ Six,” said Scriven, with gusto.

“Six, was it?—well, I got mad and lost
count, and we had to pay our fares on every
one of them, and they gave us nothing but a
ticket with a hole in it and a pill advertise¬
ment on the back, and the men were not
gentlemen at all—just ordinary, common
conductors, and very rude too, most of them.
What was it that last one said, Rup—Mr.
Scriven ? ”

“ He said it was as much as he could do
to support his mother-in-law and eight small
children, without giving anything away,” said
Scriven, with a slight accession of colour.

“And to make up for the disappointing
time we’ve had, Rup—Mr. Scriven has
promised to take me up the dome of St.
Paul’s on Monday,” beamed Miss Van Toller.

Scriven looked sheepishly into his plate,
and as he did not immediately follow us
to the smoking-room that night, we opined
among ourselves that the Benevolent ’Bus
had led him into clover.

From Behind the Speaker's Chair.

LI i.

(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)

THE Lobby does not yet look
“ tom ” itself, lacking the cheery, bustling
ellis. presence of poor Tom Ellis. It
is a significant peculiarity, shared
with very few members, that the late Liberal
Whip was always spoken of by the diminu¬
tive of his Christian name. Another Whip,
also like Lydias and Tom
Ellis, dead ere his prime, won
the distinction. Through the
angriest days of Mr. ParneH’s
ruthless campaign against the
dignity of Parliament and the
stability of its ancient institu¬
tions, his cheery, warm-hearted,
mirth-loving Whip was always
“ Dick ” Power. To-day we
happily still have with us Sir
Robert Threshie Reid, Q.C.,
sometime Solicitor - General,
later Attorney-General, in the
House of Commons always
“ Bob ” Reid. These two instances show
the kind of man the House delights to
honour by this rare mark of friendly feeling.
a DARING It was a bold stroke on the part
j_ ol Lord Rosebery, at the time
Prime Minister, to promote the
member for Merionethshire to
the post of Chief Ministerial Whip on the
submergence of Mr. Marjoribanks in the
House of Lords. With Liberals only less
exclusively than with the Conservative
party, it has, from time immemorial, been
the custom to appoint as Chief Whip a
scion of the peerage, or a commoner sancti¬
fied by connection with an old county family.
Tom Ellis had neither call to the high
position. His father was a tenant farmer.
He himself was a Welsh member, having
neither social standing nor pecuniary resources.
To make such a man what is still known by
the ancient style of Patronage Secretary was
a bold experiment. That even at the outset
it was not resented by the party is a striking
tribute to Tom Ellis’s character.

It would not be true to say that, in private
conversation, heads were not shaken, and
that tongues did not wag apprehension that
the thing would never do. The new Whip
speedily lived down these not unnatural and
scarcely ill-natured doubts. He had a sweet

experi¬

ment.

serenity of temper impervious to pin-pricks,
a sunny nature before which spite thawed.
It was an immense lift for a young, obscure
Welsh member at a bound to be made the
confidant of Cabinet Ministers, the trusted
agent and instrument of the most powerful
governing body in the world. It did not
even begin to spoil him.
There was no difference
between Tom Ellis, member
for Merionethshire, and Tom
Ellis, Chief Ministerial Whip,
except perhaps that the latter
was more diffident in his de¬
meanour, a shade nearer being
deferential in his intercourse
with fellow-members. His most
marked failing was his
extreme modesty, a unique
default in a Parliamentary
xus. Whip. It did not, however,

cover weakness of will or
hesitancy when he heard the call of duty. He
was genuinely sorry if any particular "course
for the adoption or the carrying out of which
he was responsible hurt anybody’s feelings,
or did not fully accord with one’s material
interests. If a thing had to be done,
it was got through, smilingly, gently, but
firmly.

Tom Ellis was so unassuming in manner,
so persistently deprecatory of his own claims
to thanks or approval, that his great capacity
was often underestimated. Alike in the
House of Commons and in Parliament
Street we have time now to sum it up at its
real value.

i ord Prime Minister rarely takes

Salisbury’s notes as a preliminary to taking
memory P art in a det)ate - Among many
instances of this habit I well
remember his speech on the second reading
of the Home Rule Bill in the Session of
1893. He sat out the course of long and,
on the first night, dreary speaking in his
familiar attitude, with head bowed, legs
crossed, the right one persistently shaken in
fashion tending to drive mad neighbours of
nervous habit. He did not as he listened
take a single note. When at ten o’clock on
the second night of the debate he stood at
the table, he laid upon it a square of paper

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

764

about the size of an ordinary envelope.
This presumably contained the notes of
his speech brought down from his study. If
so, they were almost entirely ignored. He
went steadily on, his
speech a stately river
of perfectly-turned
phrases. He omitted
no point in the argu¬
ment of speakers in
favour of the Bill,
and more than once
quoted them textually.

That, a by no means
infrequent occurrence,
is the chiefest marvel.

Debaters most chary
of note-taking invari¬
ably write down the
very words of an earlier
speaker when they
intend to cite them in
support of their argu¬
ment. A sentence
that strikes Lord Salisbury is
burnt in upon his memory.

When the proper moment
comes he quotes it without
lapsing into paraphrase.

A colleague of the Premier’s tells me he
once spoke to him admiringly of this won¬
derful gift. Lord Salisbury explained that
he adopted the habit from necessity rather
than from choice. He felt hopelessly ham¬
pered with written notes, often finding diffi¬
culty in reading them. Feeling the necessity
of mastering the precise turns of particular
phrases as they dropped from the lips of a
debater, he gives himself up to the task, and
rarely finds himself at fault.

Mr. Arthur Balfour in
note- lesser degree shares his

takers, uncle’s gift of precise
memory. When, as hap¬
pened this Session, he has to ex¬
pound an intricate
measure like the London
Government Bill, he
provides himself with
sheafs of notes, and his
speech suffers in per¬
spicacity accordingly.

That laboriously pre¬
pared effort was his
one failure of the Ses¬
sion. As a rule he is
exceedingly frugal in the
matter of note - taking.

More frequently than

SITTING OUT A DEBATE

otherwise he speaks without the assistance
of notes. Like Mr. Gladstone, Sir William
Harcourt, and all Parliamentary debaters
of the first rank, he is at his best when,
suddenly called upon, he plunges
into chance debate.

Sir William Harcourt is a volu¬
minous note-taker, his big, as dis¬
tinguished from his great, speeches
being almost entirely read from
an appalling pile of manuscript.
Mr. Chamberlain rarely trusts him¬
self in sea of debate without the
bladder of notes. But they are
not extended. A sheet
of note-paper usually
serves for their setting
forth.

The n'ew
lord Viceroy of
mayo. India was-
more fortu¬
nate in the attitude of
public opinion towards
his appointment than
was a predecessor
nominated exactly
thirty years earlier.
When Mr. Disraeli
made Lord Mayo Governor-General of India,
the announcement was hailed with a storm of
opprobrium from newspapers not marshalled
solely on the Opposition side. The Viceroy-
designate was chiefly known to the House
of Commons and the public by a once-
famous, now forgotten, speech, delivered in
the spring of 1868. John Francis Maguire,
forerunner of the Parnellite organization,
submitted a series of resolutions on the con¬
dition of Ireland. In
the course of his speech
he dwelt upon the evil
effects wrought to his
country by the existence
of the Irish Church. That
was the burning question
of the hour. A month
later, Mr. Gladstone’s
Resolution decreeing the
disestablishment of the
Church was carried in the
teeth of the Ministry by
a large majority. It was
known that the pending
General Election would
turn upon the issue. Lord
Mayo, at the time Irish
Secretary, was put up to
answer Mr. Maguire.

CHAMBERLAIN TAKES A NOTE.”

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR,

765

There are some (exceedingly few) members
of the present House who recall the speech
and the scene. For four hours the Irish Secre¬
tary floundered along. Just as he seemed to
be collapsing from physical exhaustion, shared
by his audience, he pulled himself together
and spluttered out a sentence that instantly
agitated the House. Mr. Maguire had de¬
nounced the Church Establishment as a scan¬
dalous and monstrous anomaly. The Irish
Secretary, hinting at a scheme for making
all religious denominations in Ireland happy
without sacrificing the Established Church,
talked about “levelling up, not levelling
down.”

The phrase was instantly recognised as
coming from the mint of the Mystery Monger
sitting with bowed head and folded arms on
the Treasury Bench. What did it mean ?
Was Dizzy going to dish Gladstone by dealing
with the Irish Church question before the
enemy got the chance ? No one off the
Treasury Bench ever knew. Some day the
mystery may be unravelled. Up to this time
Lord Mayo fills the position of
Him who left half-told
The story of Cambuscan bold.

On the last day of July in the same year
Parliament was dissolved, and within a week
it was whispered that Lord Mayo was to be
the new Governor-General of India. Exile
seemed a just punishment for a four hours’
speech murmured before a hapless House of
Commons. But there was a general impres¬
sion that this kind of exile was, in the cir¬
cumstances, too splendid.

One of Lord Mayo’s intimate
“ many a friends who saw him off on

slip.” his journey to India tells me
a curious incident illustrative of
the situation. Expressing hope of some
time looking in to see the Viceroy at Calcutta,
or Simla, Lord Mayo said : “You may see
me again much sooner than that. I should
not be a bit surprised if, when I get to Suez,

I find a telegram recalling me.”

Since his appointment, and pending his
departure, Mr. Gladstone had been returned
by a majority that placed him in a position
of autocratic supremacy. There was, un¬
questionably, something out of the way in
the haste with which the fallen Government
had filled up the greatest prize at their
disposal. There was at the time no question
of the possibility of Lord Derby’s Adminis¬
tration being reinstated. As my friend (a
Conservative member of the last Parliament
elected under the Reform Bill of 1832) put
it, “Defeated about twice a week in the

House of Commons, going to certain doom
in the country, Dizzy pitchforked Mayo
on to the Viceregal throne.” It would
have been a strong course to recall him,
but the circumstances were unprecedented.
Certainly Lord Mayo did not feel safe till he
had passed Suez, going forward on a journey
which, three years later, the assassin’s knife
ended on the Andaman Islands. Meanwhile,
“ Dizzy’s dark horse ” had come in the first
flight in the race for enduring fame among
Indian Viceroys.

In 1816 Sir Robert Peel, then
after Chief Secretary, wrote : “I believe
many days, an honest despotic government
would be by far the fittest govern¬
ment for Ireland.” Sixteen years later Lord
Althorpe, another statesman not prone to form
a rash opinion, wrote to Lord Grey: “If I
had my way I would establish a dictatorship
in Ireland.”

The Irish members complain that what
was refused to Peel, to Althorpe, and to a
long list of statesmen directly concerned for
the government of Ireland has been granted
to so mild a mannered man as Mr. Gerald
Balfour. His appearance is certainly out of
keeping with the part. But, as the Irish
members found one Friday night this Session,
when Mr. Davitt brought up the case of
distress in Ireland, within the Chief Secretary’s
fragile frame, behind his almost maidenly
reserve, glow embers of a fire that can, upon
occasion, be fanned into furious flame.

An ancient House of Commons’
peers and tradition tells how the Speaker
elections, of the day, having solemnly
threatened a member that he

would “ name him ” if he did not refrain from
disorderly conduct, was

766

THE STEAND MAGAZINE .

Early in the present Session there came to
the front two other examples of consecrated
cryptic doom. At the opening of every
Session the Speaker, amid a buzz of conversa¬
tion among reunited members, reads a series
of Standing Orders. One forbids any peer
of Parliament to concern himself in the elec¬
tion of members to the House of Commons,
for generations this formula has passed un¬
challenged. The peers have been solemnly
warned off, have received the injunction in
submissive silence, and (some of them) have
taken the earliest opportunity of disregard¬
ing it..

It is a frailty of the human mind that
repetition blunts its power of discrimination.
Hearing this Order read Session after Session,
old members grow so accustomed to the
rhythm of its sentences that their purport
passes unheeded. Young members make no
move, not because they lack pre¬
sumption, but because they believe
that what has been so long endured
must necessarily be right.

It needed a man of the mental
and physical youth of Mr. James
Lowther to put his finger on this
anomaly. This Session, as in one
or two of its predecessors, he has
moved to expunge the Standing
Order from the catalogue. He has
shown, and no one has disputed
the fact, that in spite of its pompous
assumption of authority the rule is
absolutely impotent. If a peer
pleases to violate the ordinance the
House of Commons has absolutely
no power to enforce it. With an
ordinary business assembly that
would suffice to make an end of the
absurdity. The conservatism of the
House of Commons in respect of
its own procedure is deeply rooted.

Mr. Lowther’s motion was rejected
by a considerable majority, and next
Session, as through the ages, this
brutum fulmen will be hurled from
Speaker’s Chair.

DOGBERRY The analogous anomaly that
cropped up in debate was the
position of truant members of

“mental and

PHYSICAL YOUTH ”—
MR. JAMES LOWTHER

the

AND THE
HOUSE OF

commons’ Select Committees. Members
watch are nom i nate d to the Committee
on a private Bill by a body called
the Committee of Selection, over which, for
just a quarter of a century, Sir John Mowbray
presided. Committee-men are expected to
attend the various sittings. If they do not,
the Chairman reports the delinquents to the

House, and a formal motion is made,
that the errant member “do attend the
said Committee at half-past eleven to¬
morrow.”

That is plain sailing. “You shall com¬
prehend all vagrom men,” said Dogberry, in
his charge to the watch. “ You are to bid
any man stand in the Prince’s name.” “ How
if he will not stand?” the shrewd watchman
inquired. That is a question that occurs to
the mind in connection with the rules govern¬
ing the attendance of members on private
Committees. The House of Commons has
met the difficulty by unconsciously adopting
Dogberry’s ruling. “ Why, then,” the sublime
City officer answered to the watchman’s
poser, “take no note of him, but let him
go; and presently call the rest of the watch
together and thank God you are rid of a
knave.”

Of late Sessions the House,
sensible of the false position it
was placed in by this procedure,
has varied it. Instead of the
formal injunction that used to
appear on the votes commanding
the attendance of the peccant
member, the report is simply
ordered to lie on the Table, and
thus the House is thankfully rid
of a knave.

A very proper distinction
differ- * n matter is made
ence^ between the sacred per¬
sons of members of the
House and mere citizens. It some¬
times happens that a busy man
summoned to give evidence before
a Select Committee of the House
of Commons fails to obey the
summons.

Then doth the thunder roll
and the lightning flash. The
Chairman hurries off to tell the
shameful story to the shocked
House. A peremptory order is
for the attendance of the recal-
witness, and the Serjeant-at-Arms
is instructed to see that it be obeyed.
A communication by post, or by mes¬
senger if the witness reside within the
Metropolitan area, usually brings him up
to the scratch at the appointed place
and hour. If he pushes resistance to
extreme the Serjeant - at - Arms will go
and fetch him vi et armis . He will be

brought to the Bar of the House and
committed to the Clock Tower till purged
of his contumacy.

issued

citrant

FROM BEHIND THE SEE A FEE’S CHAIR.

767

DEMA¬
GOGUES IN

THE HOUSE

In “Mr. Gregory’s
Letter Box,” being
.the correspondence

DR ‘of the Right Hon.

kenealy. ^ Gregory

1813 to 1835, he

during the greater part of that
time being Under Secretary for
Ireland, there is quoted
a striking sentence from
Canning. “I have never,”
he said, “ seen a dema¬
gogue who did not shrink
to his proper dimensions
after six months of Parlia¬
mentary life.”

This acute observation
remains as true to-day
as it was in the earlier
Parliaments Canning
adorned and occasionally
dominated. Two modern
instances suffice to prove
the case. When, in 1875,

Dr. Kenealy entered the House, triumphantly
returned by the men of Stoke, he was an
undoubted power in the land. I remember
Mr. Adam, then Opposition Whip, showing
me an appalling list of constituencies, some
held by Liberals, others by Conservatives,
common in the peculiarity that if a vacancy
occurred the next day Kenealy could return
his nominee. He was conscious of his
power, and meant to make the House of
Commons feel its influence. The crowded
benches that attended his
utterances furnished flatter¬
ing testimony to his power
and the interest excited by
his personality.

On the occasion
of his first ap¬
pearance, the
House was filled
as it had not
been since critical divisions
on the Irish Land Bill, or
the Irish Church Bill, of
the preceding Parliament.

Amongst the spectators
from the galleries over the
clock were the Prince of
Wales, Prince Christian, and
the ex-King of Naples, at
the time a visitor to London.

Mr. Evelyn Ashley, at the
safe distance of the Isle
of Wight, had been saying
something about Kenealy,

THE SERJEANT-AT-ARMS WILL GO AND
FETCH HIM.”

DEWDROPS
ON THE

lion’s

MANE.

ENTER MR. KEIR HARDIE.

who made it a question of privilege.
In this speech was set that gem of
oratory remembered long after the rest
is forgotten. “Of one thing I am
certain,” said Kenealy, in deep chest-
notes, wagging his head and his fore¬
finger, as through many days of the
Tichborne trial they had
been wagged at hostile
witnesses and an un¬
sympathetic judge, “ that
the calumnious reflec¬
tions thrown on my
character will recoil on
their authors. As for me,
I shake them off as the
lion shakes the dewdrops
from his mane.”

Before his first Session
closed, Kenealy flickered
out like a damp torch.
He tried again and again
to obtain a footing in the
House. Without being
rudely repelled he was set back, and long
before the Parliament ran its course he
became a nonentity.

Mr. Keir Hardie, a man on an
mr. keir infinitely lower plane than Ken-
hardie. ealy, who, after all, was a con¬
summate scholar and displayed
occasional flashes of genius, is a later illustra¬
tion of the truth of Canning’s axiom. He
came in in 1892 as member for West Ham,
numbered among the narrow majority of
forty that placed Mr. Glad¬
stone in precarious power.
From the first he made it
clear that he was no hack—
like Mr. Burt, for example—
but would let bloated pat¬
ricians know that the work¬
ing man is their master.
To that end he wore the
Cap of Liberty, of some¬
what dingy, weather - worn
cloth. Also he sported a
short jacket, a pair of
trousers frayed at the heel, a
flannel shirt of dubious
colour, and a shock of un¬
combed hair. On the day
of the opening of Parlia¬
ment he drove up to West¬
minster in a break, accom¬
panied by a brass band.
His first check was received
at the hands of the police,
who refused to allow the

768

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

musical party to drive into Palace Yard.
So the new member was fain to walk.

His appearance on the scene kindled
keen anticipation in the breast of Lord
Randolph Churchill, who saw in him a
dangerous element in the Ministerial majority.
The member for West Ham did his best to
justify that expectation. At the outset the
House listened to him with its inbred
courtesy and habitual desire to allow every
member, however personally inconsiderable,
full freedom of speech. It soon found
out that Mr. Keir Hardie was as sounding
brass or tinkling cymbal. His principal
effort to justify his appearance on the Par¬
liamentary stage was a motion made in his
second Session to discuss the widespread
destitution among members of the working
classes. He rose after questions, claiming
to have the matter discussed as one of urgent
public importance. When the Speaker asked
if he were supported by the statutory number
of forty, only thirty-six rose. The bulk of
members, not unmindful of the prevalent
condition of the working man or unwilling
to help him, did not care to march under
Mr. Keir Hardie’s flag. His six months of
probation were over, and he had shrunk to
his proper dimensions.
When the dissolution
came he, almost un¬
observed, sank below
the Parliamentary
horizon.

The baths re¬
cently added
to the lux¬
uries of the
House of Commons
have been so much
appreciated, that there is
prospect of necessity for
extension. The accom¬
modation is certainly
poverty - stricken, com¬
pared with that at the
disposal of denizens of the Capitol at Washing¬
ton. The baths that serve America’s legislators
are luxuriously fitted below the basement,
approach being gained by a service of lifts.
Each marble tank is set in a roomy chamber,
furnished with every appliance of the dressing-
room. During the progress of an important

THE PAR LI A- _
MENTARY
BATH.

‘ EXIT MR. KEIR
HARDIE/’

debate there is a great run on the bath-room,
it being at Washington the legislative habit to
take a bath preliminary to delivery of an
oration.

In addition to ordinary hot and cold baths
there is a Russian steam bath. I never saw

the like in England. The operation com¬
mences in a small, windowless room, which
has for sole furniture a wooden bench, coils
of steam-pipes garlanding the walls. When
the door is shut and the steam turned on
the hon. member gasps in a temperature as
hot as he is likely to experience in this
stage of existence. When he is parboiled he
goes through a cooling process, beginning
with a tub of hot water and on through
a succession, the temperature gradually de¬
creasing.

This process occupies an hour and a half,
and is obviously not a luxury to be indulged
in when an important division is expected.
It is recommended as admirable for rheu¬
matic cases, infallible for a cold. It might
be tried in the House of Commons should it
be decided to extend the bathing accommo¬
dation.

ILLUSTRATED B'f (;

JASSEF SULLIVAN.

[“ The Black Cat” a
magazine published at
Boston, in the United
States, recently offered
prizes for the Short.
Stories sent in. The
first prize, of the value
of £300, was won l>y
the following story,
which we have plea¬
sure in bringing to the
notice of readers on this
side of the A t (antic.]

HE rivalry between Vincent
and Halladay was bitter
enough before Miss Belmayne
appeared. It then assumed
an aspect almost Corsican.
Vincent was the Rome
correspondent of the London Thunderer.
Halladay was the Roman representative of
the London National. Vincent was an
Oxford man ; Halladay’s intellectual creden¬
tials were dated at Cambridge. Vincent
was of middle height, dark, lithe, and
athletic. He had an electric energy, and
quick, penetrating brown eyes, with a merry
light in them that was attractive; also a
brown moustache that approached the femi¬
nine ideal. Halladay was of stouter and
flabbier build, with a blonde, sharp-pointed
beard, and a face like Lord Salisbury’s. Lord
Salisbury was, in fact, secretly his model.
He was the cousin of a peer, but notwith¬
standing this drawback had managed to
develop a value of his own, which shows his
great force and determination. He was also
five years older than Vincent, who was only
thirty-one; and in the game of life, if not of
love, years have a distinct value of their own.
Both men drew lavish salaries, moved in the
highest society of Rome, and were polished
carpet cavaliers and very popular. Both, too,
had weaknesses which revealed their tempera¬
ments and are correlated forces in this
narrative.

Vol. xvii.—97.

Vincent’s weakness was a small sloop
yacht which he kept at Naples for vacation
cruises. Not having time, in the pressure of
events, to love a woman, he loved his yacht.
Whenever social, diplomatic, or international
affairs did not command his attention, he
and his pipe and the yacht had charming
hours of mental communion together in his
apartment. Whenever leave of absence per¬
mitted, the three did Capri, Sorrento, Ischia,
and the adjacent Turner paintings of the
Bay of Naples in congenial company. On
stretching seas, in the calm and gorgeous
afterglow, he dreamed of a possible fair one
in the nebulous future. This showed his
temperament to be romantic.

Halladay’s weakness was “ The War Cloud
in the Balkans.” Whenever other news failed
he would knit his editorial brow and use his
portentous ink and see ominous signs of
trouble in Servia, Bulgaria, and the Balkan
Provinces. One can always see ominous
signs of trouble in Servia, Bulgaria, and the
Balkan Provinces, and they make an excel¬
lent frame on which to hang long and sweep¬
ing periods dealing with possible international
complications. From which it will be seen
that Halladay was ambitious. He always
used the most majestic polysyllables that
fitted, and these won him the reputation of
a powerful and far-seeing correspondent,
which reputation he confidently believed that
he deserved.

These diverse temperaments caused the
two men to secretly scorn each other, and
this feeling was not diminished by their
alternating newspaper triumphs, important
bits of news from the Quirinal or the Minis¬
tries, which fell now "to one and now to the
other, and caused the usual variations of
anger and delight.

Thus it was when Miss Belmayne and her
parents arrived at the Grand Hotel for the
winter. Parents are, of course, of no import¬
ance, but it may be mentioned that Mr.
Belmayne had made stoves, and incidentally

77 o

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

accumulated two millions, on the shore of
Lake Michigan. Miss Belmayne was one of
those girls who, without effort, bowl over
unprepared Englishmen like ten-pins. She
had style, Paris style, and this, when the
dressmaker is driven with an intelligent
curb, is very fascinating. She was fairly
tall, blonde, had ideas, dark-blue eyes, and
a frank, sympathetic nature. All these exer¬
cised a novel and powerful influence on the
two men. They met her on the same even¬
ing at a diplomatic reception. The charms
mentioned were quite enough for Vincent.
He went home, lighted his pipe, put on his
slippers, looked at the fire,
and said, “By Jove!” He
said nothing more to the fire
or anything else for two mortal
hours. Then he said “ By
Jove ! ” again and went to
bed. The same charms
sufficed to stagger Halladay,
but to them he added the
two millions. He was older
and more practical. He
wrote his cousin the
peer and told him to
be sure to come to
Rome that winter.

Then he mentally
watered his genea¬
logical tree, resolved
to lay siege to the
beautiful Vicksburg
with the firm patience
of a Grant, and
absently took a cold
bath. This chilled him,
at midnight, but did
not check his ardour.

Miss Belmayne took
Rome and the Forum
and the Coliseum very
seriously. This was
a novelty to Vincent
and Halladay, so they awoke to its
grandeur, and took it very seriously in¬
deed. They sent her books, and bronzes,
and prehistoric pavements, and fragments
of ancient palaces by the cartload. Papa
Belmayne, who was indulgent, said he
didn’t particularly care for a macadamized
drawing-room, and engaged another room to
hold the ancient architecture. The attentions
of the two men soon became constant and
very marked. And through archaeological
mornings and afternoon drives, on the blocks
of the Forum and the steps of the Coliseum,
on the Pincian Hill and the roof of St.

Peter’s, they fell deeper and deeper in love,
but kept their own counsel. The dear girl
was as yet unconscious of it, but they hated
each other with the hate of the 1850-60
dramas. It was anything—all—to win the
adorable beauty and sentence the other fellow
to life-long despair.

The primal cause of all the subsequent
trouble was Vincent’s .yacht. He had, on
various occasions, shown Miss Belmayne the
high responsibility of his position as cor¬
respondent of the Tfamderer. Now and
then he wrote his despatches at her hotel,
after dinner, and two days later would read
her the powerful, ponderous
Thunderer editorials, which,
telegraphed all over Europe,
were based upon the
despatches sent by
him. This interested
her tremendously.
Like every true
American girl of now¬
adays — in her ante-
matrimonial, ante-
babies - of - her - own
period — she secretly
longed to sway nations.
To write despatches
which set Europe and
America in a ferment,
which caused Salisbury,
the German Emperor,
and the Czar to in¬
stantly buckle on their
skates, as it were, and
dash off to do some¬
thing final, seemed to
her the only occupa¬
tion worthy of woman
or of man. She found
nothing so delightful as helping him, and he
knew nothing so delightful as her help, not¬
withstanding that the hotel note-paper was
scarcely the proper stationery to bear this
freight of heavy thought. When the Thun¬
derer arrived she would read the despatches
with a thrill of interest born of her indirect
connection with the great newspaper. Finally
she wanted to write a despatch — just a
little one—all by herself. He, reserving
rights of correction and revision, consented.
It was a safe contribution, not at all sen¬
sational, about the returns of the olive crop.
She wrote it. She also read it, word for word,
in print two days later. That experience was
a crisis in her life. Destiny opened out its
arms to her as a woman of might and power.
Halladay lost ground visibly after that, and

MISS BELMAVNfi.

THE TAX ON MOUSTACHES.

77 1

had emotional neuralgia of the most torturing
kind.

The cause of the trouble, as before stated,
was the yacht. A dirty steam trader from
Marseilles, while coming to anchor, had taken
off the bowsprit
of Vincent’s
secondary idol,
together with a
large slice of her
peerless nose. It
was like an acci¬
dent to a highly
esteemed female cousin.

The best medical attention
was instantly necessary.

Vincent knew the Italians.

He knew that, if he did
not personally arrange the
contract for repairs at Naples,
the contractor who did them
would afterwards own the
yacht, bring suit against his
personal fortune, and hold
his family responsible for the
balance of the money. In short,
he had to go to Naples for two
days. Miss Belmayne, strange to
say, received the news with joy.

“ I’ll look after things. I’ll send
anything that’s necessary to the
Thunderer ,” she said.

He stared at her in astonishment.

11 Oh, do let me ! Please do ! I want to
show you the breadth of my mind.”

Events were very dull, journalistically.
And when a beautiful girl wants to show
you the breadth of her mind it is not only
dangerous to say “No,” but wise to say
“ Yes,” that is, if you are as much in love as
he was. He finally consented and she
radiated enthusiasm. “Just read the papers
if you do send anything, and be guided by
them,” said he. “ But don’t—er—don’t
send too much, and nothing that isn’t im¬
portant.” Then he went away to single
combat with the contractor. She couldn’t
do him any harm. If what she sent was
bad it wouldn’t be printed. And his con¬
sent to the proposal would certainly do him
infinite good in connection with another
proposal. Thus he mused, in love, and in
the train to Naples.

Now, it is doubtless fully understood by
all adult persons that when an American girl
desires to show the breadth of her mind she
is destined to show it at all hazards. The
responsibility of her position weighed heavily
upon Miss Belmayne. She came down to

above her forehead.

breakfast next morning with a far-away look
in her eyes and two brown prima-donna hair-
curlers still nestling in the soft silken hail'
Papa Belmayne at first
assumed that this was a
new style in breakfast
toilets, and said nothing.
He could never keep
quite abreast of the
fashions, and he had
made mistakes before.
Then he conceived
that it might possibly
be an evidence of
strong, disturbing
emotion, and ven¬
tured to inquire.
She gravely re¬
moved the hair-
curlers, and after
striking her hair
three skilful taps
put them in her
pocket. Then
she cautiously
whispered to him
the news. She,
SHE, was the
Acting Rome
Correspondent of
the Thunderer!
Papa was startled.
It flashed in¬
stantly upon his practical Chicago mind
that with a wire like that something might be
done in wheat. But, no—on second thought
—that wouldn’t do. Still, he was proud, very
proud, of his daughter. He proceeded to
like Vincent amazingly.

“ We’ll give the old Thunderer a lift, my
dear, if anything happens. I’ll furnish the
statesmanship and you look out for. the
spelling and punctuation,” said he. Halla-
day he had never liked. That gentleman’s
family tree and its luxuriant foliage had been
exhibited several times in his presence, and it
annoyed him. Not having dealt largely in
trees in his career, he didn’t believe in them.
So Vincent stock rose clear above the
hundred mark in the Belmayne family,
and Halladays fell steadily to zero, with
no offers.

Halladay knew this and fumed in secret.
He also guessed at once from Miss
Belmayne’s words and questions the foolish
thing that Vincent had done. He saw in
it not only a clever move of his rival, but also
an opportunity to spoil Vincent’s chances and
win Miss Belmayne with a single safe play.

SHE WOULD READ THE DESPATCHES.

772

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

He was devoted but thoughtful all that after¬
noon. Then he went away and meditated.

At ten that evening he entered the Bel-
mayne drawing-room, sharp-pointed, immacu¬
late, and smiling with a visible air of conscious
triumph.

“ Ha, ha, ha! Sorry for Vincent. Pity
he’s away,” he said.

“ Oh, what has happened ? I’ve read all
the evening papers,” said the Acting Corre¬
spondent.

“ Can’t say, you know. Must keep a good
thing to myself when I
get it.”

“Is it a very good
thing ? ”

“ Very.”

“ Is it a big thing ? ”

This with fear and
trembling.

“ Biggest in months. May
cause a rebellion in Italy.

You know these Italians.

Hair-trigger sort of people
when anything happens that
they don’t quite like.”

“Oh, Mr. Halladay,
please tell me ! ”

He proceeded not to tell
her, for the next half-hour,
in the cleverest way pos¬
sible. He dangled the bait
before her and cruelly
enjoyed her attempts to
seize it. He saw with con¬
cealed fury, however, that
her anxiety was the tender
anxiety that he most greatly
feared. This armed him
in his resolve, and having
excited her curiosity till
it was painful, he went downstairs.

“ What is it, my dear ? ” said Belmayne.

Miss Belmayne was dumb with disappoint¬
ment. She loved Vincent—she knew it in
that moment—and he would be dreadfully
beaten, without excuse, and perhaps lose his
position. Because of their compact he had
even failed to notify the Thimderer of his
absence.

“ I’ve missed the greatest news of the year,”
she said, sharply. “ Do go down to the
smoking-room. They’re sure to be talking
about it. Follow Halladay, and see to whom
he speaks. We must get something about
it.”

Papa Belmayne was stout, vigorous, fifty-
five, and came from Chicago. His hair was
curly and showed only a few white lines.

Spurred by parental love and a desire for
something to do that was slowly undermining
his constitution, he followed Halladay like
the species of hound which is called sleuth.
His eyes twinkled and his blood was up.
He had always known that anybody can be
a newspaper correspondent, and he enjoyed
trying it. He quickly found Halladay in the
smoking-room and kept his eye on him.
Halladay observed this and was deeply glad.
It was as he had hoped. Belmayne had
fallen heels over head into his trap.

Halladay was in earnest,
low-toned conversation with
Sir George Perleybore, a
tall, thin, white-haired, per¬
fectly groomed baronet, of
any age above sixty-five,
the kind of lay figure met
everywhere in the best
hotels of the south of
Europe during winter. Sir
George was astonished.
Papa Belmayne saw this
plainly, and lay low like
Brer Rabbit. Halladay
finally went away. Papa
then greeted Sir George
carelessly and proposed a
whisky - and - soda. Also
cigars. Sir George said :
Most extraordinary ! Wouldn’t
have believed it. What’ll these
beggars do next ? ” Papa
swelled with repressed eagerness.
Then it all came out. He got
it — every word of it — and
chuckled at his own diplomacy.
Then he flew to the elevator.

“Now I know what I’m talking
about, my dear,” he said, when her
burst of joy was over. “ I understand
these things and you don’t. I haven’t been
a State senator two terms for nothing.
You sit down and take your pen and I’ll
dictate.”

Papa expanded like a balloon, walked the
floor, and dictated. He measured every word
by cubic measurement. He dictated the
short despatch four times and half of another
time in all. She wrote and scratched out and
turned the dictionary pages feverishly, and
thought how clearly Edward would see the
breadth of her mind.

And neither Edward nor the Thunderer
knew the doom that was impending.

When the despatch was finally completed
she knew that she could have expressed it
much more elegantly, but papa was inexorable.

HALLADAY.

THE TAX ON MOUSTACHES,.

773

He’d tell the story in America, by jiminy, and
he wanted to read his own despatch in the
London Thunderer. So she copied it in a
bold, round hand, signed Vincent’s cipher,
gave it to Vincent’s commissionaire, who

called at eleven, and both she and papa went
to bed feeling very well indeed.

At ten o’clock the next morning—Roman
time—the face of Europe wore a fearful
geographical frown. Consternation, per¬
plexity, and uncertainty ruled in live empires.
From Downing Street the news went under
the Channel to the Paris Elysee and overland
to the winter palaces of Berlin, Vienna, and
St. Petersburg. In her honest attempt to
sway nations, the dear girl had succeeded.
The Thrones sent messengers to the Foreign
Offices ; the Foreign Offices wired the Ambas¬
sadors, and neither wire nor cable could
work half fast enough to please the respective
senders. When the Stock Exchanges opened,
Italian Rentes fell six points, and their allies
weakened in proportion. The smash had
come. Italy was bankrupt and the Triple
Alliance would fall to pieces. It all arose
from a despatch and a leading article in the
columns of the London Thunderer , those

columns which were held to be as infallible
as the multiplication table itself. This was
the despatch :—

ITALY.

[From our own Correspondent .]

I saw Signor Crespo this evening, arid learned
from him that the new and important item in
the Budget, the new source of revenue which
has been promised and upon which great hopes
have been based, will take the form of a national
tax upon moustaches. In his Bill, which he
will introduce in the Chamber to-morrow, it
will be provided that every citizen of Italy wear¬
ing a moustache shall pay a sumptuary tax
thereupon of one lira yearly. In
the ordinary course this tax will
yield the twenty million lire
per annum which are so
greatly needed and whose
source up to now it has been
impossible to discover. Of
course a certain amount of
opposition from the Left
is confidently to be expected.
The tax on moustaches will
undoubtedly afford an oppor¬
tunity to the Socialists to
champion individual rights
and protest against inter¬
ference therewith ; but on
the other hand, the Clerical
wing are certain to view the
innovation with favour. The
popular acceptation of the
measure is, however, difficult
to forecast.

This was probably
the most nonsensical
despatch that has ever
appeared in any news¬
paper, great or small.
The editor had looked
at it, incredulous. The
leader writer said, “ H’m, it’s neck or
nothing with Crespo.” Only Vincent’s
cipher and the condition of Italy made
belief possible ; but it was believed. This
was the leader :—

The extraordinary course which has been adopted
by the Prime Minister of Italy in order to replenish
the national treasury is so radical an extension of the
general principle of taxation that neither its wisdom
nor its result can yet be declared with any degree of
certainty. Statistics do not, unfortunately, furnish
us with the number of Italian citizens who at the
period of the last census were wearing moustaches.
It is a well-known fact, however, that the custom of
cultivating hair in an ornamental form upon the
upper lip is, perhaps, more firmly established as a
national habit in Italy than in any other country of
the world at the present time. The first lesson of
this proposed legislation is its certain indication of
the extreme, if not hopeless, financial straits into
which the monarchy has fallen. The second is the
very doubtful character of the tax itself as a reliable
source of revenue, when viewed from the standpoints
of expediency and of successful enforcement. It will
be necessary for legislation to establish with perfect
clearness not only vffiat a moustache legally is, but

“ PAFA EXPANDED LIKE A BALLOON.”

774

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

also at what age, both of the wearer and of the
moustache itself, it becomes taxable ; and in these
two directions, to say nothing of the popular accept¬
ance or rejection of the measure, the visible difficulties
are both many and great, etc., etc.

On that very afternoon a man in a yachting
suit went over the side of a yacht at Naples
and was rowed to the pier. He was happy
and buoyant with the buoyant happiness of
the man who loves and is loved. Upon
reaching the pier he bought the second
edition of the Corriere di Napoli , and
glanced at the telegraph columns. The
Thunderer despatch had been cabled back
to Naples, and under sensational headlines
was the first to meet his eye.

His first thought was that he was losing
his mind and inventing the telegram. Then
something flashed upon him, and his heart
seemed to stop beating. He staggered to
the curb of the pier, sat down, and shut his
eyes. He was never sure afterwards whether
he fainted or not. For five minutes he knew
only the silent whirl of agonized thoughts.
He grasped at once what had happened. It
was Halladay’s work, and Halladay had
ruined him. The Thunderer was the laugh¬
ing-stock of Europe, and he, as the respon¬
sible sender of that despatch, was journalistic¬
ally done for. Ambition spoke first, and the
pain was of the bitterest.

Love spoke next, but with
all his rage and despair he
could not find the power to
be harsh to Miss Belmayne.

“ The dear girl !” he said.

“ She did her best, and that
scoundrel fooled her com¬
pletely. Oh, oh, oh ! ” And
he squeezed his head with
his hands as if to shutout
the thought of his position
and the inevitable con¬
sequences that he must
face.

A little knot of loungers
had gathered, his evident
pain exciting their sym¬
pathy. This recalled him
to himself, and he took a
cab and drove away. Little knots of
men stood in front of all the cafes,
excitedly discussing the new tax. Half
of them were clean-shaven for the
first time in their lives, and the rest
were about to be. There was a run
on every hairdresser’s shop in Naples.

The Italian is poor, the taxes are killing, and
the art of dodging them is the first thing
taught to children. Vincent still held the

paper, and now read its comments on the
tax. They combined a scream of sarcastic
laughter with a howl of furious rage. Italy
had been touched on the spot that was
tenderest. But—and here was a gleam of
hope—the reputation of the Thunderer was
so high that the despatch had been taken
seriously. The “sell” had not yet been ex¬
posed. If only Crespo would save him—
but, no ! Crespo’s position, already imperilled
by a crisis, was worse than his own. Crespo
would want to shoot him on the spot.

He caught the 2.40 train and rode to
Rome in a state of numbness. What he
would do to Halladay he did not dare to
think. He was a man in a rage, a hungry,
thirsty rage, that threatened to overpower
him. Nor did he dare to go to his apart¬
ment. There lay the telegram dismissing
him in derision and contempt. In his sor¬
row his heart turned to love for consolation.
Arrived at Rome he drove to the hotel,
entered Miss Belmayne’s drawing-room with
a white, sad face, and sat in the shadow.

The Acting Correspondent came in radiant,
beaming with pride and pleasure over her
shrewdness and success.

“ Have you seen it ? It’s in the Roman
papers. You didn’t get beaten. Oh, I was

“a little knot of loungers had gathered.”

THE TAX ON MOUSTACHES.

7 75

so worried, and so happy when I knew you
were safe ! ”

She stopped, mystified at his silence.
Then she saw his pallor and his expression.

“Are you ill? What is it? What’s the
matter? ”

He tried to spare her; tried to pass the
matter over lightly. But the moment she
knew that the despatch had caused his
trouble all subterfuges were useless. Her
face, too, grew white, and she kept on asking
him question after question, till she fully
understood the effect of what she had done.
His ruin was certain, but his replies were
gentle, quiet, and full of sympathy. Then
the society girl known as Miss Belmayne dis¬
appeared, and the woman in her came out.
His career was ended, and through his love
for her. The big, beautiful girl stood up,
tried to say she was sorry, but couldn't.
Her lips only quivered and wouldn’t work.
Then she sat down, bolt upright on the sofa,
and the tears came first creeping and then
tumbling down from her eye-lashes as she
cried, broken-hearted, without a word or a
handkerchief. He tried to soothe her, to say
it was nothing. “ Oh, Edward ! ” was all she
said.

In spite of his grief he observed the
word “Edward.”

Upon this interesting and unconven¬
tional social tableau bustled in Papa
Belmayne, of Chicago, millionaire
and newspaper correspondent. He
saw a white young man and a
young person bathed in tears.

“Wha—what’s the matter?” said
he, starting and peering over his
eye-glasses.

“I’m done for, but it’s
all my own fault,” said the
young man.

Papa inquired and was
told. He sat down suddenly
in a state of collapse.

“ If that sneak comes
here again, I’ll cowhide
him,” he said, exploding.

“ I’ll thrash him anyhow.

Anyhow ! ” he roared, with
the rage of an honest man
beaten at his own game.

Then several minutes of sad, solemn silence
ensued, each trying to find a ray of light in
the gloom.

“ Why don’t you see Crespo ? He’s a
friend of yours, isn’t he ? ” said Belmayne.

“ He has been.”

“ Then come on. Laura, you come with

us. We did it. We’re responsible, and we’ll
take the blame. Crespo is the only man
that can save you. Here ! Order me a
carriage ! ” he shouted to the maid.

The combative financier, who had faced
and won a hundred battles that were real
battles, was not to be daunted by a Prime
Minister and a newspaper and a little thing
like this. His courage, of course, infected
his daughter. With father at the helm every¬
thing would, of course, be all right. It must
be all right. So she hoped once more, and
darted away for hat-pins. While waiting for
her and the hat-pins at the elevator another
thing occurred. Belmayne put his hand
in a friendly way on Vincent’s shoulder
and said : “ Young man, don’t you worry.
If you have to give up journalism, you may
possibly do much better than that. I know
you, and I like you.” Vincent nodded
quietly. The. implied promise was well
meant, but it did not appeal to him just
then. They drove to the Quirinal Hill in
silence. The Acting Correspondent merely
asked her father if her hat was on straight.
She secretly proposed to take the Prime
Minister by storm.

who has been

‘ OH, EDWARD ! ’ WAS ALL SHE SAID.”

Now, during all these woful occurrences
Chance, which, as everybody knows, is the
prime minister of Providence, was playing
tricks upon another Prime Minister, the
temporary ruler of Italy. Signor Crespo
was at his wits’ end over the new tax
measures. In order to pass them he had
to • yield to the demands of the Socialist-
Anarchist wing of his party, and if he failed

776

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

to pass them he fell from power. One
alternative was as distasteful as the other,
and he was rapidly growing grey in his
efforts to find a way out of the dilemma.
When the Thunderer despatch was brought
him he jumped to his feet in amazement.
Then he scratched his head and said,
“Ah!-’ Then he smiled a smile of joy.
He foresaw something.

Two minutes afterwards the double doors
of his private room were burst open and a
portly marquis, one of his enemies in the
Cabinet, rushed in and said: “Crespo—for
Heaven’s sake-”

The Prime Minister said nothing.

Other high politicians of his party, rivals
and enemies, rushed in and cried : “ Crespo
—for Heaven’s sake-”

Signor Crespo said nothing.

The King sent a noble duke hot-footed to
say : “ Crespo—for Heaven’s sake-”

The Prime Minister still said nothing, but
in different words.

In half an hour they were all on their
knees, all the opposing elements he had
spent months in trying to combine. They
accepted the tax on moustaches as a fact,
and saw that, in revenge on them, he was
going to ruin the party. They begged him
not to propose it. He consented—on con¬
ditions. They agreed abjectly to his terms,
told him to count on their votes, and, when
the Chamber met, passed his Budget, which
they had previously agreed to defeat, by a
huge majority.

'Phis is why the Prime Minister, who had
made inquiries, was also eager to see the
Acting Correspondent who had sent that
despatch. Being a devout man, however, he
looked upon the real sender as Providence.

The carriage party entered the Ministry.
To Vincent it seemed to be wrapped in
accusing gloom. It was his farewell to the
Prime Minister, both as friend and corre¬
spondent. Nevertheless, he wrote on his
card: “ With Mr. and Miss Belmayne to
explain that despatch.”

They were silently ushered in and stood
in the great man’s presence, three drooping
figures, guilty and downcast. Belmayne was
not happy. He was not used to cringing

before anybody. . Laura’s eyes were full of
new tears. She would sway no more nations,
whatever the temptation. Vincent was pale
and grave.

For some reason the Prime Minister began
to laugh. He had not felt like laughing for
three months, and he enjoyed the feeling.
He laughed till the tears came into his eyes.

Vincent was angry.

“ Does it strike you as comical ? ” said he.

“Comical? It’s providential. See here,”
said Signor Crespo, pointing to a pile of at
least a hundred telegrams. “All Europe
wants information about your despatch. I
mean Miss Belmayne’s despatch,” he said,
bowing gracefully.

“ Then you — you understand how it
happened ? ”

“Yes.”

“And, of course, you—you’ve exposed it?”

“Oh, no. They thought I meant it. It
has saved the situation.”

“ What ? ” said Vincent, thunderstruck.

“And in return, my friend, I have saved
you. The Thunderer , unable to get an
answer from you, telegraphed me for indorse¬
ment. I sent this :—

“The Thunderer , London.

“ In consquence of concessions from opposing ele¬
ments I shall not present my proposed tax on
moustaches. “Crespo.”

“ BY JOVE ! ” said Vincent.

“EDWARD ! ” screamed somebody.

“ Hurrah ! ” said Belmayne.

And Edward’s arms were filled with sudden
millinery, and two hearts were filled with
deepest joy.

'Two events of different kinds succeeded.

Halladay was abused by the National for
missing the most important news of the year.
When he gave a true explanation of the
matter he was scoffed at. It was visibly
false. He then proceeded to turn to a pale
but not unbecoming green colour. The
doctors said liver; the cause was unrequited
love.

The other event was a social function of a
happy, even hilarious, character, at the
Grand Hotel. This is not of importance,
however, in a country where orange-blossoms
are indigenous.

The Rontgen Rays in Warfare.

By Herbert C. Fyfe.

F all the gallant soldiers who
took part in the recent cam¬
paign against the Afridis on
the north - west frontier of
India probably none dis¬
played more personal bravery
then General Wodehouse. He is described
as walking about in an almost solid stream
of lead, and the extraordinary part about it
is that he only received one wound, and that
was in the leg. The surgeon took him into
a tent in order that the missile might be
extracted; and while this was being done

the Afridis crawled up and suddenly blazed
into the operating tent, putting thirteen shots
through the canvas. Instead of showing any
alarm the General, according to the testimony
of eye-witnesses, was as calm as if he were in a
London hospital, and the operation proceeded,
in spite of the rain of bullets, just as if there
were not an Afridi within ioo miles. Contrary
to advice, General Wodehouse, although his
wound was of an unpleasant jagged character,
would not be laid up for long, and shortly
after the injury he rode into Peshawar at the
head of his brigade with the wound still
unhealed. However, thinking that some

Vol. xvii.—98.

portion of the shot might have been left
behind, he went to the base hospital at
Rawul Pindi, and there Major Beevor,
R.A.M.C, took a radiograph here repro¬
duced, which showed that his surmise
was correct. This picture is very interesting,
showing as it does that not only bones but
fibrous tissue (commonly called gristle) will
sometimes split a bullet, or chip pieces from
its surface. The bullet entered the General’s
leg in the upper part, passed obliquely down¬
wards, and was cut out on the opposite side
of the leg. In its course it passed through

the space which (as the photograph shows)
exists between the two bones; "this space is
filled in by a tough fibrous membrane, and as
the bullet pierced it the membrane cut four
pieces off its surface, as can be plainly
seen.

In the upper part of the picture is a safety-
pin, and this is visible because in taking
pictures with the X-rays, which pierce all such
material, it is not necessary to remove dress¬
ings or splints.

The case of General Wodehouse is only
one of a very great number in which those
marvellous rays known by the name of their

773

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

illustrious demonstrator, Professor Rontgen,
have done so much to aid the surgeon in his
work and to alleviate human suffering. They
enable him to determine the position, size,
and nature of foreign bodies in his patients,
and to observe the condition of injured bones,
joints, and internal organs.

In the present article attention will be
drawn to the manner in which this most
valuable addition to surgical science has
been applied in military warfare. It is
satisfactory to know that the War Office has
at length realized the importance of equip¬
ping our large military hospitals at home and
abroad with an efficient X-ray outfit, and of
encouraging officers of the Army Medical
Service to acquire a thorough practical know¬
ledge of radiography.

Turning now to the actual working of the
Rontgen ray in warfare, some account must
be given of Surgeon-Major W. C. Beevor’s
experiences during the recent frontier
expedition to India. This was the first
time that the X-rays were employed in a
campaign.

“The Afridi,” remarks Major Beevor,
“ uses bullets of almost every description,
and not only bullets, but missiles of various
kinds. So long as he can have a go at his
enemy with something hard, he does not care
a rap what that hard thing is—a stone, a
piece of lead of any sort, or a piece of
telegraph wire. He relies upon the telegraph
wire for one of his chief amusements, because

dispensation the beneficent rays have pre¬
vented much suffering to the patient which
would have occurred had probing been
resorted to, and the operator may now
dispense with the unsatisfactory and frequently
not-too-well sterilized probe. “As a death¬
dealing instrument, a dirty and unskilfully
used probe,” said a doctor recently, “ has
few equals, and many lives will be saved by
rendering its use unnecessary.” Modern
science has provided the surgeons with a
probe which is painless, which is exact, and,
most important of all, which is aseptic—
qualities not possessed by the older, though
ingenious, instrument bearing Delaton’s
name.

It is not possible here to enter into any
detailed discussion of the various interesting
cases in which Major Beevor applied the
Rontgen rays in the Tirah Campaign. In
very many instances he was able to find
bullets by their means where ordinary methods
were unavailing in disclosing their position.
In the case of a Ghoorka who was shot in the
back of his thigh in the first fight of Dargai,
every means of probing was tried, but no
bullet could be found, yet as there was no
aperture of exit the surgeons knew there must
be a foreign body irritating the man’s leg. It
would have been impossible to have found the
bullet until the swelling and the irritation of
the wound had subsided; in fact, it might
never have subsided, and it was in contem¬
plation to amputate the man’s leg. By means

2.—BULLET WOUND IN THE LEG OF A GHOORKA.
Taken at Dargai by Major Beevor.

he likes to chop it into little bits and have a
‘ snapshot ’ at his enemy, whether one of his
own people or a heathen— i.e., 4 a white man.’ ”
Before the advent of the X-rays, the surgeon
had to probe about in order to try and locate
a bullet or other substance. In the new

of the X-rays, however, Major Beevor localized
the bullet exactly, which was found to have
traversed diagonally from above downwards
and inwards, to have struck the bone, and
rebounded in a channel of its own (No. 2).

The wounded native soldiers who were

THE RONTGEN RAYS IN WARFARE.

779

examined by the rays took much interest in
the process. One was heard to say after¬
wards that a “ sahib with a peculiar light ”
had examined his leg.

Another case which deserves mention was
that of a man who was shot on the inner
side of the biceps muscle (No. 3). He was
attended by a very intelligent and scientific
surgeon of the Indian army, who probed and
searched in every direction without success,
and then sent the patient away on a furlough

for six weeks. The rest of the story may be
told in Major Beevor’s own words : “ He
returned saying that he could not use his
elbow : he got it at a certain angle, and then
it locked suddenly ; he could throw a stone,
and even use a lance, but he was a cavalry¬
man, and all his actions were awkward
because he could not get his arm extended.
They thought he was humbugging. The
Indian soldier, no matter who he is, is a
champion at humbug when it pleases him ; he
is a charming fellow in every way, but if he
likes to ‘put on the agony,’ he can do it very
successfully. Well, the surgeon said to me,
‘ Will you have a look at this man, because
he is such a good chap, and I don’t think he
is humbugging, but he wants to get married
and go away on a pension ?’ We examined
him with a fluorescent screen, and instantly
detected the cause of his disability ; the
bullet had slipped down through the mus¬
cular fibres of the biceps muscle into the
sheath of a tendon, and had become

incrusted or surrounded by adventitious
fibrous material. The surgeon cut down
upon it, and it took him about an hour
and a half to dissect the bullet from the
tendonous material with which it was
surrounded, and when the tendon had
been massaged and stretched the man
returned to duty. I suppose he got his
wife, but he was an excellent fellow, and
probably more pleased at being cured than
he would have been at getting his pension.”

By the courtesy of Major J. C. Battersby,
Royal Army Medical Corps, who was in
charge of the Rontgen apparatus with the
Nile expeditionary force in the last Soudan
Campaign, there are here reproduced for the
first time in a popular magazine some photo¬
graphs of great interest taken in Egypt, show¬
ing how the Rontgen rays were used for the
benefit of our wounded soldiers in the recent
Soudan Campaign.

The first (No. 4) shows the ioin. induction
coil at work. Major Battersby is here counting
the seconds while a skiagram of the shoulder
is being taken. The photographic plate can
be seen in a specially devised wooden plate-
holder under the shoulder-joint. Those who
are used to experimenting with the X-rays
will notice a very ingenious tube-holder.

No. 5 is a photograph of a “ localizing
apparatus,” specially made for Major Bat¬
tersby and used for the first time on active
service by him during die recent Nile Expe¬
dition to Khartoum. By means of this

3.—BULLET IN ELBOW OF NATIVE SOLDIER.
Taken bn Major Beevor.

780

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

4.— MAJOR BATTERSBY AND HIS ORDERLY TAKING A
From a] radiograph in the soudan. [Photo.

(By permission of the Publishers of “ Archives of the Rontgen ltays.’’,

instrument the Major could accurately de¬
termine the depth and exact position of
bullets in the flesh, and then could operate
with certainty.

The next picture (No. 6) is of a very novel
character. Major Battersby used a tandem

bicycle to generate the electricity necessary
for his work, and in the photograph the
arrangements by which the lonely desert
was illuminated for the first time with electric
light by this novel method can be clearly seen.

“The pulley of a small dynamo,” writes

From a ] 5. —major battersby using the localizing apparatus. [Photo.

(By permission of the Publishers of “Archives of the Rontgen Rays.”)

THE RONTGEN RAYS IN WARFARE.

781

From a] 6.—tandem bicycle used to generate electricity for the x-rays. iPhuto.

(By permission of the Publishers of “Archives of the RcJntgen Rays.”)

Major Batters by, “ was connected by means
of a leather strap with the back wheel of a
specially-constructed tandem bicycle. The
required velocity for the dynamo was then
obtained. Having carefully adjusted the
circuit with the storage battery, and also with
the voltmeter and ammeter, the warrant officer
took his position on the seat of the bicycle
and commenced pedalling. When 15 volts
and 4 ampbres were registered, the switch
close to the handle of the bicycle was opened
and the charging of the battery commenced;
as the resistance became greater, a sensation
of riding up hill was experienced, and the ser¬

vices of an additional orderly requisitioned
for the front seat. This bicycle practice was
generally carried out in a shade temperature of
uodeg. jF., so that everyone was glad when
(the switch having been turned off before
pedalling ceased, in order to avoid any dis¬
charge from the battery) the machine was
brought to a standstill.”

No. 7 is the Nile at Abadieh (eight miles
north of Berber), where the advanced base
surgical hospital was situated and the head¬
quarters of the Rontgen-ray work.

In No. 8 some fragments of a bullet are
lodged in the left arm of a soldier.

From a]

7.—THE NILE AT ABADIEH—THE HEAD-QUARTERS OF THE RONTGEN-RAY WORK IN THE SOUDAN.
(By permission of the Publishers of “ Archives of the Rontgen Rays.”)

L Photo.

782

THE S TEA NT MAGAZINE .

No. 9 is a very interesting photograph. It
shows a bullet in the thigh. This was taken
with a small 6in. coil at Omdurman, while
the engagement was actually going on. The
bullet is flattened out like a shilling at the
lower end of the right thigh. The plate was

much injured by heat and sand during the
process of development, and a splotch in
the left-hand top corner represented some
Soudan dust which, in spite of Major
Battersby’s precautions, succeeded in getting
on to the pkite.

No. 10 shows the result of a bullet wound
in the left leg of a private of the Cameron
Highlanders. The skiagram shows clearly
the fracture of both bones, the tibia especi¬
ally being very severely damaged and suffering
from hierosis. Several splashes of lead can
be seen in the wound.

No. 11 is a bullet wound in the left ankle
of a private. In the side view the bullet is
seen in the joint between the astragalus and
scaphoid. The band round the ankle is a
strap of lead plaster.

When Major Battersby decided to take an
X-ray outfit to the Soudan he wrote to the
Principal Medical Officer of the Egyptian
Army for advice on one or two points. The
latter wrote : “ Beevor worked chiefly in cold
regions ; your efforts will be carried out in
intense heat, where the temperatin'e in tents is
frequently over i 2 odeg. FA

Before leaving Cairo for the front Major
Battersby took special precautions to protect

his instruments from the excessive climatic
conditions he would necessarily encounter.
He surrounded his boxes with very thick felt
covers, and by keeping these constantly wet the
internal temperature was considerably reduced.
Between Wadi Haifa and Abadieh all the
apparatus had to
travel for two days
and a night in an
open truck, exposed
during the daytime
to the fierce heat
of a blazing sun.
By soaking the felt
every two hours the
journey’s end was
reached without
mishap. Photo¬
graphers will sym¬
pathize with Major
Battersby in the
difficulties which
beset him while
working in the
desert. He found
that plates with the
thinnest film ap¬
peared most suit¬
able for the intense
heat, but thick or
thin plates could
not have been saved without the aid of an
alum bath, as the water for developing was
comparatively hot, and no ice was procurable;
as a consequence, the more delicate shades of
development had to be sacrificed. He noticed

9.—BULLET FLATTENED AGAINST THIGH-BONE.

Taken at Omdurman by Major Battersby.

(By permission of the Publishers of “ Archives of the ROntgen Rays.”)

8.—FRAGMENTS OF BULLET IN LEFT ARM OF SOLDIER.
Taken at Onuhmnan by Major Battersby.

(By permission of the Publishers of “ Archives of the Riintgen Rays.”)

THE RONTGEN RAYS IN WARFARE.

783

XO. — FRACTURE OF BOTH BONKS OF LEG, SHOWING SPLASHES OF LEAD.

Taken at Omdurman 6//1 • [ Major Batter shy.

(By permission of the Publishers of “Archives of the Rontgen Rays.”)

a marked tendency for development to pro¬
ceed at a very rapid pace, making the
picture flash up at once, when the greatest
precautions were necessary to preserve
the result. As a rule, developing work was
performed at 3 a.m., and even then (the
coolest time) the temperature in the mud-
brick dark room varied from over godeg. F
to loodeg. F “ An atmosphere laden with
dust and constant
dust-storms is most
trying,” said Major
Battersby. “Eleven
plates were des¬
troyed one night
by a fierce storm,
which blew off the
improvised mud
roof. The wooden
plate-holders had a
disagreeable habit
of shrinking, and
thus allowing
light to gain ad¬
mission.”

Major Battersby’s
head-quarters were
at Abadieh, a small
village on the Nile,
about 1,250 miles
from Cairo, and
nine miles north of

Berber. Here the
Egyptian troops
had constructed a
number of large,
well - ventilated
mud-bricked dwel¬
lings, which ad¬
mirably suited the
requirements of a
large surgical hos¬
pital in the field.
After the Battle
of Omdurman one
hundred and
twenty-one British
officers, non-com¬
missioned officers,
and men were
brought back
wounded to the
surgical hospital at
Abadieh. Of this
number there were
twenty-one cases
in which the bullet
could not be
found, nor its ab¬
sence proved by ordinary methods. By the
help of the Rontgen rays, which were used
about sixty times, the bullet was either
found or its absence proved in twenty
out of these twenty - one cases. In the
odd case the patient was so ill with a
severe bullet wound in the lung that it was
not considered justifiable to examine him at
the time.

Taken at Omdurman by] n .—bullet in left ankle. [Major Battersby.

(By permission of the Publishers of “Archives of the Rontgen Rays.”)

By A. M. Donaldson.

Author of “ The Greatest Athletic Feat of Modern Times.”

EATS of endurance have ever
exercised a peculiar fascination
over me. Some time ago I
described to the readers of
The Strand the manner in
which a man won a million
sovereigns by accomplishing a feat absolutely
unique in the history of athletics. Since
then I have been fortunate enough to witness
a trial of strength and endurance altogether
weird and astounding—a coal-hewing com¬
petition right down in the bowels of the
earth.

The competitors were John Thomson, the
powerful oversman of a Lanarkshire coal
mine, and Colin Hay, a young doctor of
medicine. This was how the strange contest
was brought about': —

Henry Wood, after working in the pit as
boy, man, and oversman, became in the early
eighties proprietor of Broomcross Colliery.
The colliery takes its name from Broomcross
village, which is situated about six miles to
the east of Glasgow. Ten years later Mr.
Wood purchased two neighbouring collieries,
and in time became one of the wealthiest
mine-owners in the kingdom. A widower,
his daughter Mary presided over the house¬
hold arrangements of his expansive villa at
the west-end of Broomcross. A tall, grace
ful damsel of nineteen, in the summer of
1898 she met Colin Hay. He was on a visit
to his old college chum, Arthur McKinley,
whose father was the principal practitioner at
Broomcross. The two young fellows had some
time previously simultaneously taken their
M.B.Ch.B. degrees at Edinburgh University.

I also made the acquaintance of Dr. Hay
while he was there. From the first I liked

his face : his good looks were undeniable.
Of more than medium height, with very
white teeth and hands, he was always smartly
dressed. At a casual glance he appeared to
be slimly built; a more critical inspection
showed that that was owing to the tailor’s
art—that his frame was that of a natural
athlete. He certainly had not gained a
triple Blue at the University, or even cap¬
tained a cricket or football team, yet on
occasion he had proved a more than useful
athlete. But his career in the athletic arena
had early been ended. In some unaccount¬
able manner he acquired the reputation of
being the laziest student of his years, and he
made it his conscientious endeavour to live
up to his reputation.

Broomcross society is limited; its amuse¬
ments are few. Dr. Hay and Miss Wood
met frequently. They played golf; they
cycled together. They soon found how well
they were matched to go tandem through the
long journey of life. But when Colin Hay
asked the wealthy coal proprietor for his con¬
sent to the engagement, he laughed long and
boisterously.

“ Ha ! ha ! ” he laughed. His English
was wont to be a little irregular in moments
of excitement. “ It’s as fine a thing as I’ve
heard on for many a day. She is only a girl,
but I have other views for her when the
proper time comes. I’m getting up in years;
I’ve three collieries going, and I mean my
girl to marry a practical man, who will keep
the collieries in the family when I’m done
with. You are not my sort at all. I’ve no
fancy for city mashers with their fancy jackets
and swagger shirts, and twopence halfpenny
in their pockets. Tell me, young feller, what
you’ve got to marry on.”

Towesr „ /ve „/ ?7

A UNIQUE MINING CONTEST

785

“Four hundred, pounds and my pro¬
fession,” the doctor replied. “ I’ve had a
junior partnership offered -to me which in
time should be. worth at least three hundred
a year. Mary and I consider that my
prospects justify me in asking for your
consent.”

“ No, no,” said the coal king. “ The man
for my girl is a man to look after the pits
when my day is done. Aye, my lad, I’d lief
enough give her to you if you could go down
the pit and do a week’s work with the best
of my men. Why, man, I’d throw in a
partnership worth a bit more than three
hundred a year for a dowry. But I’ve no use
for men of your stamp who never did a hard
day’s work in their life for fear of soiling their
pretty hands.”

The young lover pro¬
tested, the old father was
obdurate, and on the day
following Colin Hay bade
Broomcross adieu for a time.

“So,” said Mr. Wood, on
his daughter’s return from
seeing Hay off, “ you’ve been
seeing young collar and cuffs
again. You must stop this
nonsense, my dear, and marry
a man—not a popinjay.”

“He has left Broomcross,”
she answered, “ and will not
be back before November.

He told me you promised
him your consent to our #
engagement and a partner¬
ship when he is able to do a week’s work
with the best of your men. Now, dad, I’ll
hold you to that.”

“ I believe I did say something of the
kind,” Mr. Wood said, “and I’m not the
man to go back on my word. It was a safe
promise. It would kill the poor thing to
send him down in the cage. Seeing you’ve
lost your doll, Mary, I’ll take you into
Glasgow to-morrow and buy you a new toy.”

Vermyle is a village four miles from
Broomcross. It is scarcely possible to con¬
ceive any less inviting spot in which to
reside. The village has been built directly
over an old coal-field. For miles around the
country is honeycombed with mines. From
time’ to time subsidences occur. The walls
of the houses gape with huge cracks, and
the buildings with twisted gables and roofs
askew bear a most dissipated look.

Outside this village one afternoon in
October last, three months after Dr. Hay’s
visit to Broomcross, I met some pitmen

Vol. xvii.—99.

garbed in their dirty moleskins. In one of
them, despite his grimy clothes and face, I
thought I recognised the young doctor. I
spoke to him.

“ Halloa, Hay,” I said. “ When did you
change your profession ? ”

The miner walked past without taking any
notice. This wasn’t good enough for me.
I knew something of his love affair. I turned
back and spoke to him again.

“You are the counterpart,” I said, “of a
gentleman whose name is Hay. Will you
oblige me with your name ? ”

“It’s all right, Parker,” he said now. “ I
see you can’t be bluffed. I’m in training,
you know, to take on the best of old Wood’s
men at a game of coal-hewing—‘howking’
they call it here. Come along
with me until I wash off
some of this filth, and I’ll
let you know about it.”

As he spoke we stopped in
front of a small, whitewashed,
red-tiled cottage, standing in
a small garden a little back
from the road. “ I have a
contract,” he continued,
“ with the tenant of this
broken-down shanty. I pay
her half a crown a week for
the use, night and morning,
of her room to change in.
It’s part of the contract that
when I knock off work she
supplies a tub of hot water
and unlimited soap. Will
you come in or wait outside while 1 change?”

I preferred to wait outside. In twenty
minutes Colin Hay, spick and span as I had
known him at Broomcross, sauntered out of
the doorway. He had a cigar between his
lips. He held a case in his gloved right
hand which he offered to me, saying, with all
his old drawl and affectation of weariness :—
“Have a cigar? Not village brewed, I
assure you. Bocks, theyare. I have nice rooms
in a small villa less than a quarter of a mile
away. Tea is waiting now. Come and join
me in a cup. Seeing you have caught me in
the act, I may as well explain my masquerad¬
ing. But you must excuse me talking until
we have some tea. It is an excellent pick-
me-up, and I’ve had a hard day’s work.”

We had tea in a well-furnished dining¬
room. A cheerful fire blazed in the hearth.
We wheeled a pair of easy chairs forward
and smoked in silence, while the landlady lit
the gas and removed the cups. The cigars
were excellent.

786

THE ' STRAND- 'MA GAZINE.

“Are you in a hurry ?” Kay interrogated,
when the table was cleared and, by the
way, what are you doing here ? ”

“ Doctor,” I replied, “ I refuse to leave
this house until you have confided in me the
meaning of this strange freak. If I can
assist you in any way, I am at your service.
Unfortunately, I reside here. In a fit of
temporary insanity, induced by the proximity
of the place to town, I leased a house.”

As we sat and smoked, Colin Hay told me
of his reception by Mr. Wood when he asked
his consent to an alliance with his daughter.
He intended to accept the coal-owner’s offer,
he said, and do a week’s coal-hewing against
the best man in the Broomcross Collieries.
The prize, Mr. Wood’s consent to the mar¬
riage and a partnership in the collieries.

The young doctor had been in training for
three months, and hoped to be thoroughly fit
in another month. Coal-mining had been
most uncongenial labour at first. I smiled
as he described his early experiences.

“ The first day I was down the £ Brandy ’
pit—local term, I suppose ; but if it has
another name I don’t know it,” he said,
££ my working ground was a 4ft. seam, half a
mile from the pit mouth. Short though the
distance was, I was tired with the stooping
before I commenced to hew. Crouched up,
sitting on my haunches, aching in every limb,
the blisters rising on my soft hands, I pecked
away at the coal. The man I was with was
a good workman, and, thanks to him, I was
saved from disgracing myself altogether.

££ I crawled home in the evening. When
I woke next morning the flesh of my hands
was raw, the fingers bent and fixed, and a
separate pain shouted out from each of the
two hundred and forty odd bones of my
body. I attempted to rise, but the agony
was excruciating. In four days I was down
the mine again.”

££ Will you pull it off, do you think ? ” I
asked.

££ I have one or two points in my favour,”
he answered. “At a day an expert miner
might beat me easily. At a week it is not so
certain. I have satisfied myself as to the most
important point, and that is, for how many
hours to work per day with best results.”

It was late before I bade the young doctor
good-night, so interesting was the subject and
so excellent the cigars.

Mr. Wood was in his study examining some
plans one evening about a month after this
meeting, when Dr. Hay was ushered in —
Colin Hay, the well-groomed, immaculate in
his attire, more elegant than ever.

“ Halloa, young collar and cuffs,” was Mr.
Wood’s rude greeting. “ You are the last
man I expected, or wished, to see.”

“ How are you ? ” said Hay. “ I certainly
did not anticipate an enthusiastic welcome,
but such impertinence is scarcely pardonable
even from a prospective father-in-law. How¬
ever, I shall let it pass. I have come for
fifteen minutes’ straight talk with you.”

“ Go on then. If you have anything to
say, say it and cut; I’m busy.”

“ Exactly, Mr. Wood. The pleasure at
the termination of the interview will be
mutual. In July I, as a matter of courtesy,
asked your consent to your daughter’s
marriage with me. You gave it and also,
unasked, the offer of a partnership in your
collieries—on certain conditions.”

“ Nothing of the sort, sir. With my
consent my daughter shall never marry a
tailor’s advertising station.”

“ Your invective savours of the pitman,”
said Hay, with quiet scorn. “ But it is not
unexpected. It is your frequent boast that
you are a man whose word is as good as his
bond. I am going to put you to the test.
When I spoke to you on that occasion, at first
you refused to entertain my proposal. Subse¬
quently at our interview, you stated quite
explicitly that when I was fit to go down a
mine and do a week’s work with the- best of
your men, I should have your consent to the
marriage and a partnership for dowry.”

“Ha, ha! So I did.” Mr. Wood leant
back in his chair and laughed loudly. “It
would be as good as a play to see you with
.a pick in a 3ft. seam. You couldn’t earn
enough in a month to pay your week’s
laundry bill ”

“mr. wood leant back in his chair and

LAUGHED LOUDLY.”

A UNIQUE MINING CONTEST

787

“ As I was about to remark,”. Colin Hay
resumed, “ I have- been considering your
offer and have decided to accept it. I am
ready at any time. My proposal is that your
nominee and I commence work say at Sun¬
day midnight, and continue till Saturday at
midnight.”

“ Pooh ! ” said the mine-owner, contempt¬
uously. “ You would not stand up to it for
an hour. I can’t allow my daughter to be
made a fool of.”

“ Of course,” said Hay, “ presumably
because it suits you to do so, you choose to
view this matter in the light of a joke.
Seeing that with you the deliberate going
back on your word is such a light thing, I
shall now have no hesitation in marrying
Mary whenever it is convenient, with or
without your permission. The partnership
would have been a good thing purely from a
financial point of view. It is always well,
moreover, to be on friendly terms with one’s
relatives. Before I go I will give you a word
of advice. Never again boast that your word
is as good as your bond. Remember also that
the partnership proposal was yours, not mine.”

Pie made to go.

“ One moment,” Wood called, before his
visitor had reached the door. He was
beginning to think that he was serious. “ Do
you really mean what you say ? ”

“ Undoubtedly. If you had been prepared
to hold to your own offer, I was also ready to
give you something of a quid pro quo. In
the event of my defeat I was prepared to
hold our engagement in abeyance until your
daughter’s majority. In the event of my
failure to make a creditable display I was
prepared to break off the engagement
altogether. And this with her acquiescence.”

“That’s a guarantee anyway, if Mary con¬
firms what you say, that I won’t be made a
fool of in my own pit without getting some
change back. Now, my lad, you will have
your chance. If between Sunday and Satur¬
day midnight you can howk as much coal as
John Thomson, my working manager at
Broomcross—howk, mind ye, no blasting—
I’ll take you into my business without a
penny; and from the day you marry my girl
you shall have a third of the properties and
a third of the profits.”

“ That is what I expected from you,” said
Hay. “ I think it would be better for us to
meet at the colliery to-morrow and arrange
at which seams the hewing has to be per¬
formed and any other details. Will three
o’clock suit you ? ”

“I’ll make it suit me,” Mr. Wood answered.

“I may as well tell you that John Thomson
has beaten every man in Lanarkshire at
coal-howking, and,” looking on Hay with
undisguised contempt, “ he’ll make rings
round a molly-coddle like you. Wouldn’t
you be as well now to go away home and to
bed ? You’ll need a rest after this trying
discussion.”

“I am tired, certainly,” Hay drawled in
retort, “ of your uncouth impertinences. But
I hope, when you and I are partners, to
knock some breeding into you.”

Early next morning Mr. Wood sent for
Thomson, his oversman or working manager.
A working manager’s duties are to take
general supervision of the mine and miners,
not to do manual labour except in excep¬
tional circumstances. Thomson had been
promoted from the ranks two months pre¬
viously. A giant among his fellows, fully 6ft.
in height, and of strength proportionate, he
looked fit to fight for a kingdom. He
touched his cap as he approached his master,
who was waiting for him at the pit-head.

“Are you still able to use a pick?” Mr.
Wood asked.

He smiled the smile of a man who has
confidence in his powers, as he answered : —

“ I daresay I might, although I am out of
practice. Have you a job for me ? ”

“Aye, John. But he will be the softest
mark you have ever had. You’ll be ready to
start at twelve on Sunday night, and go on
till the end of the week unless he stops
before that. I daresay any hutch-boy would
beat him, but I’ll run no risks.”

“ Who is he, sir ? ” Thomson asked.

“A friend of Dr. McKinley. He has
been running after my daughter. To stop
his nonsense I said he could have her if he
could do a week’s work against the best of
my men. The young fop is willing to try.
Say nothing of my daughter’s connection
with the affair to anyone.”

“ Is it that overdressed chap, with the
light kid gloves ? ” the man asked, in¬
credulously.

“ That’s he. He will be here at three
o’clock. I want you to be here then to fix
on your workings for next week.”

“ I’ll be here then, sir,” Thomson answered.
“ But either you are joking or the man is
daft.”

At three o’clock Mr. Wood introduced the
opponents to each other. It was outside the
cage. Hay at once offered his hand to
Thomson, saying :—

“ I am certain we shall have a pleasant
contest, and may the best man win.”

788

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

MR. WOOD INTRODUCED THE OPPONENTS TO
EACH OTHER.”

The man touched his front lock.

They descended some seventy fathoms
into the earth, and * walked along the dark
passages illumined only by the fitful gleam of
their lamps. They wandered from working
to working before deciding at which part
of the mine to hold the contest. In close
proximity were seams of varying thickness,
one 6j4ft., one nearly 4ft., and a third, nearly
3ft. They arranged that each man should
work at the 6ft. seam until he had hewn three
tons; next at the 4ft. seam until he had pro¬
duced three more tons ; and then similarly at
the 3ft. seam. Thence back to the 6ft. seam
and round again. Not less than three tons
was to be sent from any seam before the
worker proceeded to that following. Any
excess over three tons at any seam was to be
credited to that particular seam in the round
following.

The men were to pick the coal and that
only. They were to be allowed as many
assistants as necessary to draw the coal when
picked from their workings, and hutch-boys
whose duty it is to attend to the little
waggons in which coal is conveyed to the
shaft bottom, whence to the surface to be
weighed.

“ Beastly dirty job, isn’t it ? ” Hay sighed,
as he reached terra firma.

On Sunday afternoon, a few hours before
the contest was timed to commence, Thonl-
son and a miner employed in the pit wherein
Hay had served his novitiate walked along
Broomcross main street. Thomson was

narrating the conditions of the match, and
describing how cleverly they had fixed it up
as a trial of strength, wherein the other man’s
skill in blasting, if he had any, would be of
no avail. They met Dr. Hay, who bowed to
his opponent and passed on.

“ D’ye ken that man ? ” asked Thomson’s
friend.

“ Aye, that’s him I was tellin’ ye of,”
Thomson answered.

The first speaker stood still, caught his
sides, and laughed immoderately. When his
merriment had subsided, he said :—

“ John Thomson, ye’re a bigger fule than
I took ye for. Bar yerseh, there’s no a better
howker than him in the country. Aye, man,
he’s got ye on to a fower and a three fit
seam. That’s where he has the best o’ a
big, wechty man like yersel’. We could na’
fathom what a man o’ his stamp was daein’
in the Brandy pit.”

The oversman took his friend straightway
to Mr. Wood’s house, where he was subjected
to a lengthy interrogation by the grim coal-
master.

“ Thomson,” he said, before dismissing the
men, “there’s a fifty-pound note for you if
you win. It will be the longest climb down
of my life if you don’t.”

“And what about me?” said his man.
“ I’ll never dare show face again if he beats
me. I’ve had a heap o’ chaff to stand ere
noo o’er my match wi’ the mannikin. Lor’
kens what it will be if he licks me.”

II.

In the depths of the earth at midnight I saw
the competitors in that marvellous contest
stripped for the fray. Never were two more
splendid specimens of the Anglo-Saxon race,
although of such widely different types, pitted
against each other. The one meet model for
a Hercules, the other for an Apollo.

Henry Wood’s champion, John Thomson,
was bared to the waist, revealing the massive
chest, the powerful neck, and the great
muscles of his arms. His nether limbs, like
huge pillars, seemed ready to burst through
the rough moleskins which garbed them.
The square-jawed face with shaggy beard
aptly completed the picture, the personifica¬
tion of brute strength. I gazed with admira¬
tion on the man as he twirled his heavy pick
between the fingers of his right hand, thirty-
five years old mayhap, still in his prime,
strong and lusty.

Beside him Hay was completely dwarfed.
He was dressed in grey moleskin trousers,
spotlessly clean, and a thin flannel sweater.

A UNIQUE MINING CONTEST.

789

Even here he was neat and trim. It was a
night for light clothing. In the open the
atmosphere was close and murky; in the mine
the temperature was high. The change of
clothing seemed to have changed the man.
Along with his fashionable attire he had cast
off that air of concentrated weariness, bored¬
ness, and listlessness which he habitually
affected. His dress did not conceal the
beauty of his figure. His wrist narrow, but
strong as steel, swelled into a shapely fore¬
arm ; his well-developed chest, without an
ounce of superfluous flesh, tapered grace¬
fully to his waist. A picture of unconscious
grace, he stood in easy pose leaning on his
pick.

In the dimly-lighted arch of coal other
figures were grouped around the principals.
Mr. Wood, Dr. Arthur McKinley, George
Moore, the proprietor of a neighbouring
mine, myself, and about half a score of
miners who had descended to see the start
and pass a parting jest with Thomson before
his work of annihilation commenced.

At one minute past twelve the men walked
to their posts and stood ready to strike ; one
minute later Mr. Wood shouted “Time!”
and the picks were driven into the wall of
coal.

The contestants were out of sight of each
other, working at different parts of the same
seam of coal which, ten yards or so to the
right of the main roadway, ran parallel with
it. This was the 6ft. seam already re¬
ferred to in the con¬
ditions of the contest.

Mr. Wood did not
wait. Before leaving he
asked Mr. Moore to act
as his representative and
see fair play. He, Dr.

McKinley, and I, for a
time, watched the men
at work. Thomson, with
. a heavy pick of over
three pounds weight, did
noble work. He had
full scope in the deep
seam for his great
strength. Like a fury
he worked, the splinters
flying in all directions.

“ What a devil to work
he is,” said Moore. “No
man in the county can come near him.
For fifteen years at least he has met and
routed the picked men of all the collieries in
the district.”

Hay was not making such rapid progress

as his doughty opponent. He used a pick
of medium weight, fully half a pound lighter
than Thomson’s. Working with steady
swing, he was taking things more easily.

Dr. McKinley said : “ I only knew yester¬
day that Hay had been working for four
months preparing for this. In a short contest
it would be all Lombard Street to a china
orange on Thomson ; but at a week—we
shall see. By Jove! He is a picture.
Thomson resembles him as a dray horse a
racehorse. Compare the symmetry of Hay’s
form with Thomson’s ungainly structure, his
narrow pelvis with Thomson’s unshapely
haunches. Nor is Thomson the man he was
two months ago. He is gross and fleshy;
he will tire; he won’t stay the distance. Hay
will. I have rarely seen any man, even
among professional strong men, equal to
Thomson in muscular development; yet,
weight for weight, Hay has pounds more of
muscular energy at his command. Nothing
is wasted in the economy of his frame.”

“I agree with you, doctor,” I said. “I
know nothing of coal-picking, but to my un¬
practised eye it is evident that Hay is using
his weight in such a scientific manner that
his muscles operate in beautiful harmony,
while Thomson’s muscles do not work in the
same unison—with him energy is wasted in
overcoming opposing groups of muscles. He
cannot continue at the pace for a week; he
may for a few hours—for a day, perhaps.”

Moore did not appreciate our fine dis¬
tinctions, and incredu¬
lously shook his head as
he said : “ Your man is
plucky, but there is only
one man in it.”

We discussed the pro¬
babilities of the day’s
output of each man. It
was Mr. Moore’s opinion
that, without blasting, an
ordinary day’s hewing of
one man in such seams
might be computed at
about three and a half
tons—say, half a ton per
hour. Anything in excess
of seven or eight tons
for the day would be
phenomenal.

At intervals we saw
the hutches or trolleys containing the product
of the contestants as they whirled along the
narrow rails to the shaft bottom, whence they
were taken to the top and there weighed by
a checker specially put on for the match.

790

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

At ten minutes to three, Thomson emerged
from his working. Such a man was he that,
in that brief space of time, he had performed
nearly an average day’s work. Exulting in
his strength, he squared his broad shoulders,
and inflated his great chest as, black and
perspiring, but unwearied, he passed us on
his way to the smaller stratum of coal.

Meantime Dr. Hay was sitting on a flat
piece of coal sipping home-made beef-tea
from a common tin flask.

“ Well, how goes it, doctor? ” I asked.

“All right. I’ve done two tons.”

“Thomson has already finished his first
spell,” said Moore.

“That I quite anticipated,” said Hay.
“When I think of the years he has spent
underground lam lost in admiration of the
man. I shall never, while I live, forget that
picture at midnight, with him the centre¬
piece.”

“ Do you think you have any chance
against him ?” Moore inquired.

“ Not if he uses his strength intelligently,”
Hay answered. “ If he conserves it and is
not unduly hampered in the narrow seams,
my prospect of success is very remote. By
the way, McKinley, I am having a chop sent
down at six o’clock. Would you mind call¬
ing at the cottage, and asking the woman to
send a pail of hot water, soap, and a clean
towel along with it, and with all my meals ? n

“Certainly, old chap,” McKinley answered.
“ Parker and I have arranged to act as joint
stewards in the purveying. We shall see you
properly fed.”

“Thanks, very much,” Hay said. “And
now, gentlemen, my time is up. Not another
word will you drag out of me until six o’clock.”

With that he lifted the pick and resumed
his task.

As we left him Moore said : “ I believe
that Wood’s manner to your friend has been
a little abrupt. Until last night he looked
on Hay’s challenge as downright nonsense.”

“ Pardon me,” Dr. McKinley interrupted.
“ Dr. Hay made no challenge. He merely
accepted Mr. Wood’s offer.”

“ Certainly. I put it wrongly. Wood has
no idea how Hay will shape, but by facing
the music he has already gone up ioo
per cent, in his estimation.” Raising his
voice he continued, excitedly : “ He deserves
to pull it off, and I hope he will. I like to
see a man appreciate a rival as he does. No
bounce with him. I believe you have taken
their measure. If Thomson is not careful
he will run himself to a standstill. There is
no leaving Broomcross for me until the

finish. Where are Hay’s meals coming
from ? I understood he was your guest,
doctor.”

“ He has engaged a room for the week at
a cottage near the pit-mouth,” the doctor
replied.

Hay completed his three tons at 4.20.
At six he had a wash and breakfast.

“Would you care to know how Thomson
is doing ? ” Moore asked him.

“ I would rather not. I might be enticed
into attempting too much. I have asked my
friends here to let me know on Wednesday
how he stands, but not before,” he answered.

“ Capital !” Moore ejaculated. “Now, if
you want anything just say the word.”

“ There is one favour that I have to ask,”
Hay answered. “ For the last hour or more
the miners have been coming about making
remarks. They mean nothing by it, but I
would prefer to have it stopped.”

“ That you shall,” said Wood. “ I’ll see
that none except those who have business
here come into either your or Thomson’s
workings. Progress made can always be
ascertained from the checker.”

At half-past six the doctor recommenced.
He took it leisurely at first in order not to
retard digestion.

The stoppage of spectators was a small
thing in itself, yet unintentionally Hay had
scored a point over his opponent, who always
put in better work in the midst of a sympa¬
thetic, applauding crowd.

Thomson meantime was making rapid
headway. The redoubtable champion had
also formulated a plan of campaign which
might have proved successful against a man
of ordinary calibre. His design was to put
in a day’s work of such astounding extent
that his rival, seeing the hopelessness of his
case, would abandon the contest. If that
scheme failed, he must go on until the end,
or until his opponent retired. While he
realized that he might have some trouble
with his man, the result, in his mind, was
never for a moment in doubt. But he saw
no reason for doing heavy work for a week if
he could earn his ^50 in a day. Naturally,
in the shallower seam, his progress was less
speedy. But even there, where the swing of
his great pick was curtailed, so fast he
wrought, that at eight o’clock, when, stretch¬
ing out his great body, he emerged into the
open, the second quantum of three tons stood
to his credit. For eight hours he had toiled
incessantly without food or sustenance, save
an occasional draught of a mixture of
stout and ale—not, by the way, the usual

A VNIQUE MINING CONTEST.

791

miner’s drink while at work. Thomson, too,
breakfasted in the mine. His meal con¬
sisted of several cups of tea and three huge
slices of fat bacon. A crowd of miners
gathered round their oft-tried hero, and his
soul feasted on their admiration and flattery.

It was known now that Dr. Hay was a

miner of some skill, who had learned as

much of coal-hewing in a few months as

most men in a lifetime. All sorts of rumours

as to the great issue at stake were in circulation,
but the secret was well kept, and the mystery
of it added zest to the entertainment. A
Lanarkshire miner loves a bit of sport as
much as any man. Defeat for their man was
out of the question, but they hoped to see a
stiff struggle to a finish.

Breakfast over, Thomson resumed, leading
by nearly a ton and a half. He now entered
upon the most arduous part of the task.
Crouching down, with body tense, he hewed
into the coal with sharp staccato strokes. It

“crouching down, with body tense.”

was work ill-suited for a man of his build ;
his great size was all against him. The
inability to put in his best work was a source
of continual mental irritation.

In the first stage the hutches with loads of
eight hundredweight or so were sent out at
intervals of less than half an hour. Now
an hour elapsed between each. Hour after
hour he laboured with never a thought of
food or rest. At three o’clock, when he heard
from his hutch-boy that his score stood at
9 tons icwt., he heaved a mighty sigh of relief
and left his working.

Again he was flattered to his heart’s content.
Do you wonder? Hero-worship—the adora¬
tion of physical strength—will never die.
From Land’s End to John-o’-Groats the
country then was ringing with one name—
Kitchener. “ Pooh ! ” his fellows thought.
“ Who would place Lord Kitchener on a
level with John Thomson?”

Chacuri a son gout.

A meal of coarse indigestible food, and he
commenced another round. What a delight
to the man the freedom once more to cleave
the air with great sweeps of his pick
instead of nibbling in a 3ft. seam. Hours
ahead of his opponent, the match was surely
his. Hay would never have the temerity, he
thought, to persevere for another day. At
nine o’clock he entered the 4ft. seam. By
midnight his reckoning was 13 tons 8cwt.,
the equivalent of a usual day’s work of three
strong men—a feat without parallel. He
knocked off for a few hours. On the checker
saying to him that Hay had finished for the
day at ten o’clock with 10 tons 4cwt. to his
credit, he asked if he meant to come back.

“ He’s coming back right enough. He
can stand a lot of gruelling yet, John,” the
checker answered. “ He’ll be here at four
o’clock.”

“ So will I, then,” Thomson said.

In the morning the rivals arrived
within a few minutes of each other.
The young doctor the earlier, fresh
and fit, with a clean suit of clothing.
To save his hands he wore gloves with
the fingers cut off. In the week he
wore out a dozen pairs. Both went
straight to work. Thomson was rather
stiff after the twenty-four hours’ spell,
but the stiffness soon wore off. A
continuation of his previous day’s
form was impossible, but he continued
to do great work. His master was
down early.

“ He is a harder nut to crack than
we thought,” he said to him, while
Thomson was breakfasting.

“ Aye, that he is,” was all his answer.
Already he was beginning to think that his
fifty pounds would be hardly earned.

Without trace of braggadocio, Hay was
quietly self-confident. Clean and neat, so
far as his occupation permitted, undaunted
by the long lead of his opponent, he kept
steadily on.

Mr. Moore, McKinley, and I were again
in company when the coal-master accosted
us.

“ Has Hay any chance whatever ? Does
he know how much leeway he has to re¬
cover ? ” he asked.

“There’s a lpng road yet to travel,” Moore
replied. “ I should not care to venture an
opinion on the result. He is working to
schedule—has a time-table made up for the
week. He knows that Thomson is a long
way ahead, but not the extent of his lead.”

79 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

On through that day and the following,
with six hours’ sleep, and an occasional
pause for food. About half-past nine on
Wednesday evening, as he neared the end of
his third complete round, Hay asked for a
table showing each day’s progress. At ten
o’clock McKinley and I accompanied him
to the cottage. After a wash and rub down
with embrocation he went into the figures.
The state prepared by the checker showed the
progress of the men thus :—

Thomson. Hay.

Monday

Tons.

• 13

Cwt.

8 .

Tons.

.. 10

Cwt.

Tuesday (i8hrs.) ..

,. 8

9 •

Wednesday ( ,, ) ..

• 7

16 .

Total ..

• 29

13 •

.. 27

The table showed also a comparison of the
working time at each seam. Thomson’s
record for the large seam
was throughout better than
the doctor’s. At the medium
they were about level, while
at the narrow seam the posi¬
tions at the high seam were
reversed.

“Two tons and a half
to the bad, and Thomson
going weaker,” Hay said,
when he had examined the
sheet. “I did not expect
him to have such a com¬
manding lead. What a
marvel he is. Still, the
advantage is more apparent
than real. I start fresh at
the 6ft.-seam ; he will be
at the 4ft. seam immedi¬
ately.” Jumping into bed
while he spoke, “ I am
awfully obliged to you
fellows for helping me. I
hope we shall pull it off. Good-night.”

In two minutes he was sleeping soundly.

III.

On Thursday morning at four o’clock the
men were again at their posts. Hay, as
usual, without trace of weariness, clean and
spick. He gained steadily on his opponent,
who now saw the necessity of changing his
tactics. Perceiving that he was running him¬
self to a standstill, Thomson resolved to take
it more easily and recuperate for a little, even
if Hay should get level in the interim. If
so, then he, fresh, he thought, would meet
Hay, tired, and by again running right away
from him he would take the heart out of
him.

And now the one absorbing theme in
B.roomcross and surrounding collieries was
the match. At all hours of the day inquirers
came to the pit-head. The most exaggerated
rumours were current. It was known that Miss
Wood received a bulletin twice daily, and it
had become common report that she
was the prize, as undoubtedly in a tale of
fiction she would have been. The air of
mystery which still enshrouded it gave addi¬
tional relish to the conflict. The state of
the scores, which gradually crept closer,
pointed to an exciting finish. Hay was
making even better progress than on the
opening day. Overhauling Thomson so
rapidly, he began to conceive that it was all
over—that it was unnecessary to hold any¬
thing in reserve for the days to follow. He
might have fallen into Thomson’s trap but
for the folly of the latter,
who gave his scheme away
to the men, from whom we
in turn heard it. There¬
after the doctor hewed with
more regard to the future.
The scores for the day,
when at 10 p.m. they again
laid aside their picks for six
hours, were:—

Thomson—6 tons 2cwt.

Hay—8 tons 6c\vt.

Total for four days :—
Thomson—35 tons I5cwt.

Hay—35 tons 7 cwt.

O’n Friday morning
Thomson completed his
fourth round of the three
seams at 4.40, Hay at 5.30.
The rest had profited the
Broomcross champion, who
sent the splinters flying in
his best style. He rushed out
his three tons from the 6ft. seam in about
three hours and a half, as against Hay’s four
hours and a quarter. General opinion was
against the doctor. It was forgotten that
Thomson always had the advantage at the
wide seam, Hay at the narrow. There was
practically no work done in the mine, the
miners being too much engaged in watching
for-the hutches of the pair.

In the second seam there was little between
the men. Thomson continued to maintain
his lead. In the 3ft. seam, if anywhere, lay
Hay’s salvation. He entered it an hour
and a half behind Thomson. A change
came o’er the scene. The young doctor’s
loads came out the oftener ; his score
steadily crept up. At 9.45 he was level.

‘at all hours of the day

INQUIRERS. CAME.”

793

A UNIQUE MINING CONTEST.

At ten, Dr. McKinley asked if he intended
stopping for the day.

“ No, no,” he answered, a shade of impa¬
tience in his tone. “ I shall go right on to
the finish now. This seam is my trump card ;
I must play it.”

Hay completed his fifth round a few
minutes after midnight, Thomson thirty-five
minutes later. For the sake of comparison I
give the scores at ten o’clock :—

Hay. Thomson.

Friday . . 8 tons I9cwt. ... 8 tons iocwt.

Total for five days 44 tons 6cwt. ...44 tons 5cwt.

What must have been their sensations as
in semi-darkness through the long hours of
that night these men, weary but determined,
hewed on !

At six o’clock on Saturday morning—the
last day of that memorable contest — Mr.
Wood joined Mr. Moore, McKinley, and
myself. We three had seldom been apart
during the week. Already more than two
hundred souls were in the mine, all deeply
absorbed in the varying fortunes of the
game. Not a man among them would
handle pick, or jumper, or blasting charge
that day. In little groups, some in work¬
ing, some in holiday, attire, they stood
discussing the situation. I have said that
they longed for a stiff struggle. Surely they
had their wish. What was boxing match or
Cup-tie final to this ? Hours of thrilling
excitement, and the issue still hanging in the
balance. All through that long night the
contestants had toiled, both sadly in need of
rest, but each fearful to stay his hand for
an instant. For ten hours or more the
advantage on either side had never exceeded
a quarter of a ton ; and now at this crucial
stage, while Hercules led by exactly four
hundredweight, the advantage was neutralized
for the reason that they were about to move
to the narrower seams, where Hay always
recovered lost ground.

The severity of the struggle was plainly
evident. Thomson was as if dazed. His
blows lacked the old fire. Yet in his
exhausted condition he was doing good
work on the black wall. At the beginning he
had held his body rigid; in his weakness he
swung himself forward with each blow, and
so utilized his weight, as Hay had done
throughout. His girth seemed to have
shrunk. While he had acted as oversman
his hands had lost some of their horniness.
Raw and bleeding now, they must have caused
him intense suffering, but still with heroic
pluck and resolution he struggled on.

Hay was using a fresh pick, weighing only

Vol. xvii.—100.

a pound and three-quarters, the lightest he
could lay hands on. His agility, his litheness,
were gone. The terrible strain of that
stretch of twenty-six hours had told severely
upon him, in the pink of condition though
he was. His face was black with grit, his
eyes bloodshot. He worked unevenly, with¬
out the former rhythmical swing.

Of the two Thomson seemed to be in
sorrier plight, but there was little to choose
between them.

“What do you think of your son-in-law
now?” Moore asked Wood. “Is he man
enough for you ? ”

“ By Heaven,” Wood answered, clapping
his knee with his right hand to emphasize
his statement, “I’d sooner my girl marry him
than a king. And she shall too, before the
year is out.” He wheeled round and spoke
to McKinley. “ Tell me, doctor, will this
harm him ? If so, I’ll stop it now.”

“ Not a bit. He will be all right by
Monday,” the doctor replied. “ He was in
perfect training when he started. If you stop
it, you will have to give him his partnership,
you know.”

“ He has earned that already, and a hand¬
some apology to boot. Thomson, too, his
fifty pounds.”

Moore said here : “ You can’t expect him
to do a miner’s work again—can you, Wood ?
If you stop it now, nobody will be satisfied.
If he wins, and he ought to, he’ll be the
most popular mine-owner on Clydeside.
Mark my words that, when a strike is on
the carpet, he’ll have more influence than
any three miner’s agents. He may save you
and all of us thousands of pounds in the
future. The doctor can keep his eye on
them, and if he scents danger for either,
stop it.”

Thomson had now gone to the medium
seam, and in a few minutes Dr. Hay sent
his last hutch-load from the 6ft. way.

“ How much is he ahead ? ” he asked us.

“ Half an hour,” the doctor replied.

“ I’ll risk twenty minutes for a wash and
some breakfast,” he said. “ I must apologize,
gentlemen, for my disreputable appearance.”

He breakfasted on coffee, soft-boiled eggs,
and toast, and, handicapped by fifty-five
minutes, began the stern chase.

How eagerly every man in the pit looked
out for the hutch-boys wheeling their precious
loads, and plied the lads for gossip of their
chiefs. Excitement waxed intenser as the
hours ran on. Slowly but steadily the
champion was being overhauled, the doctor’s
hutches coming out the faster. Who could

794

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

foretell the ultimate result ? Thomson was
still favourite with his fellows, but the game
was anybody’s.

At ten o’clock the full score stood : —

Thomson .. ... 49 tons 9cwt.

Hay. 49 tons 3cwt.

At noon Thomson had fifty tons to his
credit; Hay, 3cwt. less.

Hay rested occasionally, Thomson never.
Even his food he swallowed to the accom¬
paniment of the pick. At half-past one his
hutch-boy told him that Hay was leading.
He drank a glass of brandy and washed
away the taste with a long draught of beer.
Invigorated for a time, he hewed to such
good purpose that once more he gave his
rival the go-by.

Two-forty saw him in the narrowest seam.
Hay followed in fifteen minutes. At four
o’clock the game, as near as could be, stood
all square, both utterly fagged out, but
striving on as if for life and death. Another
dose of his medicine, and Thomson regained
supremacy, only to be
dispossessed of the
lead in an hour.

In a fever of ex¬
pectancy the crowd
waited on. Would one
or both of these giants
of the mine collapse
before the midnight
hour, and which?

Could this mad struggle
continue, and who
would emerge victor¬
ious ?

At six o’clock Hay
sat, resting. A hutch¬
load from his and
Thomson’s workings
had gone simultane¬
ously to the pit-head.

His hutch-boy reported
that he held a lead
of 2cwt. His head was
swimming, he was wofully exhausted. In
his dire distress he had one comfort. His
opponent was, at least, in ns sorry plight
as he. Ten minutes’ rest he would allow
himself, and then on again so long* as he
could handle his pick.

Even as he rested Thomson’s huge form,
crouching to avoid the roof, came staggering
in. He half fell, half sat, down beside Hay.

“ I’m beat. I cannalift my pick,” he said,
mournfully. “ I give you best. Will you
shake hands, sir ? ”

They shook. The match was ended.

'They sat in silence for five minutes, pulling
themselves together before leaving the low-
ceiled working. A crowd of men collected
as they came into the deeper passage. The
quartette, of which I formed one, pressed
forward in time to hear Thomson, half a sob
in his voice, addressing the miners :—

“ I’m beat,” he said. “ I’ve met my
better. Give him three cheers, my lads.”

1 vow there wasn’t a man who heard that
short speech who did not deem Thomson
greater in defeat than in victory.

It is something to remember how those
miners gave tongue and cheered victor and
vanquished, while the vault of coal echoed
and re-echoed the swelling sounds until it
seemed like a roll of thunder.

After Thomson, Mr. Wood was first to
congratulate Hay. He had a hurried confer¬
ence with him and Thomson, at the end of
which he spoke to his men.

“Now, my men,” he said, “we don’t want
to have the roof tumbling down about our
heads. But I ask you
all to come to the
Broomcross Hall at
eight to-night to meet
your new master. We’ll
have a smoke and a
song, and drink his
health.”

Hay went from the
mine to Dr. Mc¬
Kinley’s, where a hot
bath and a rub down
with embrocation took
much of the stiffness
out of his limbs. A
pick-me-up which his
host composed, and
insisted on his taking,
pulled him round
wonderfully. Dressed,
he was in appearance
the old Hay—the Hay
I had met four months
previously. 'The only difference was in his
hands, which had lost some of their whiteness.

Before proceeding to Mr. Wood’s im¬
promptu smoker we had tea in Dr. McKinley’s
half-parlour, half-smoking room—altogether
snuggery.

“Ah, Hay!” said Dr. McKinley. “You
are indeed a lucky man. Two partnerships
fairly and squarely earned in one short week.
How do you think you will hit it with old
Wood? As to the partnership with Miss
Wood, there can only be one result—happi¬
ness to both.”

“ Thomson’s huge form came

STAGGERING IN.”

A UNIQUE MINING CONTEST.

795

“The surest foundation for a successful
partnership,” Hay replied, “ is mutual respect.
I have, I think, earned Wood’s respect now.
I have throughout appreciated his sterling
worth. He has attained his present position
through hard, honest work. Any personal
rudeness was because of his exceeding fear
lest his daughter should be gathered in by an
impecunious fortune-hunter. We must re¬
member that she is his only child, and make
allowance. It is-”

But here a maid, a grin on her face and a
coin in her hand, opened the door of the
room, and Mr. Wood walked in.

“ It’s almost beyond belief,” the coal king
said, after a long look at his son-in-law-elect.
“ Here you are, just as if you had come out
of a band-box. No offence, my lad—we are
all friends here. Well, Dr. Hay, I owe you
the biggest apology that I can think of, and
I’m hanged if I know what to say. You are
a gentleman, and, what I value more, you’ve
proved yourself a man , and I’m prouder than
I can tell you to think that you’re to marry
my girl and join me in the business. I will
apologize to you to-night for all the hard
things I’ve said of you to Thomson and the
men, and after that I hope you’ll let bygones
be bygones, doctor, and we’ll have a wedding
as soon as you like.”

“I have a better plan than that,” Hay
replied. “ Let bygones be bygones now.
The fault was on both sides, and, confound
it all, I’ll not have my private affairs discussed
by all the village. Just be a dutiful father-
in-law for once and say no more about it.

Don’t you think that the choice of the happy
day should rest with Mary ? ”

“ You are right, my boy. I brought her with
me to help me through with it. She is in the
drawing-room waiting for you. Ten minutes
only, though ! We are due at the hall, then.”

The doctor needed no second bidding.

“ Oh, Colin,” Miss Wood said, five
minutes later, her face covered with rosy
blushes. “ I knew you would win, and I’m
sure the dad wished all the week that you
would. When it was finished he drove
home at a gallop. You know what a terrible
man he is. I dare not disobey him. He
made me promise to ask you to marry me
before the end of the year.”

“And why not, sweetheart mine?” he
answered. “ Please the old dad and make
me supremely happy by fixing the day now.”

Miss Wood was a dutiful daughter, her
lover’s arguments were irresistible, and she
named a certain day of Christmas-week.

At eight o’clock the village hall was densely
packed. Mr. Wood and a few friends were
on the platform. The mine-owner occupied
a central seat. Colin Hay sat at his right
hand, Thomson, both hands bandaged, at
his left. When the glasses were charged
and the pipes filled, Mr. Wood introduced
them to his future partner and son-in-law
amid cheering prolonged and indescribable.
He told them in a few words sufficient of
how the contest had arisen to cast a glamour
over Dr. Hay for the remainder of his days.

John 'Thomson was an honoured guest at
the wedding.

Made of Money.

By George Dollar.

Illustrations from Photos . by Geo. Newnes, Limited.

THE CAPITOL AT WASHINGTON.

Made of macerated money, value $10,000 (,£2,000).

OME men, it is said, are made
of money. The men pictured
in these pages certainly are.
But whoever heard of cats,
dogs, shoes, birds, hats, jugs,
and monuments being made
of money ? It seems ridiculous, but the few
words that follow, as well as the pictures

LINCOLN.

Estimated value $10,000 (£2,000).

of these embodiments of wealth, may be
accepted as truth.

To put the thing in a nutshell, they are
made entirely from the macerated pulp of
condemned American paper money. A one-
legged soldier of the late Civil War, Mr.
Henry Martin, of Anacostia, District of
Columbia, has been making them for about

PRESIDENT MCKINLEY.

Value $10,000 (£2,000).

MADE OF MONEY.

797

eighteen years, turning out
a hundred a day, and con¬
suming two tons of pulp a
year. Two or three million
have thus been manufac¬
tured, and have been sold
to visitors in Washington
and elsewhere. The little
souvenirs, in fact, stare
at you from nearly every
window in the Capitol, and
the ten or fifteen cents for
which they sell apiece has
made them a most popular
and curious memento of a
Washington trip.

Some time ago we re¬
produced in our “ Curiosi¬
ties ” department a bust of
George Washington manu¬
factured from this pulp.

The likeness was very striking, and the
bust pleased the public. Washington,

therefore, was
quickly fol¬
lowed by busts
of the more
noteworthy
Presidents, two
of whom—Lin¬
coln and Mc¬
Kinley—are re¬
produced here¬
with. They sold
ext e n s ivel y.
But Mr. Martin,
in the last year
or two, has hit
upon the happy
idea of repre¬
senting the buildings of Washington. His
little view of the Capitol,
mounted with coloured
ribbon, is a pretty piece of
work. Not the least in¬
teresting thing about it,
moreover, is the fact that its
8 x 5in. surface represents
$10,000 in money.

The stuff in Lincoln and
McKinley represents
$20,000, the cat in the
basket represents $2,000,
and the insignificant feline
represents a like amount of
good dollar bills in her fat
little body. The jug is
estimated at $5,000, the
Cinderella slipper at $5,000,

and the Harrison hat,
which figured so comically
in the campaign of 1888, is
estimated at $5,000 also.
“ The Bird o’ Freedom ”
spreads her wings with
pride — possibly because
she feels the $4,000 worth
of good stuff inside her;
and the Washington monu¬
ment which concludes the
article contains redeemed
and macerated greenbacks
to the tune of $8,000.
Small wonder that the man
who buys one of these
souvenirs for a dime should
feel for the moment a
heavy responsibility in
carrying so much wealth
away.

Little attempt is made to be artistic in
these figures on account of the trifle at which
they are sold. The manufacturer makes the

Cinderella’s slipper.
Value $5,000 0 £i,ooo).

designs himself and moulds them with his
own machinery. The pulp is obtained from
the Treasury Department.

The redemption division
of that department has
charge, among other things,
of exchanging old money
for new, the old money
coming from banks in all
parts of the United States
and from Sub-Treasuries
in several cities. The prin¬
ciple of redemption is
simple. Every old dollar
received means that a new
one must be paid out, and
for a new dollar paid out
an old one must have been
received.

The career of a rejected

PUSSY.

Value $2,000 G6400).

PUSSY.

Value $2,000 (,6400).

the jug.

Value $5,000 G£i,ooo).

79§

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

dollar from redemption to
destruction is interesting.

It comes with others in
sealed packages, which are
counted, and then put up
in new packages each con¬
taining one hundred bills.

Four big holes are then
punched in each package.

A huge knife now cuts the
package lengthwise, and
the sections are sent to
two different officials for
verification. From beginning to end, in fact,
the whole process is nothing but checking
and counter¬
checking by dif¬
ferent officials in
order that abso¬
lute accuracy may
be established.

The experts are
constantly on the
look-out for
counterfeits, and
with all this super¬
vision by different
trained eyes, it
is rare that a
counterfeit or a raised note is missed.
When all is done, the mass of money
is ready for its final
conversion into pulp.

The macerator, a large
spherical receptacle of
steel, contains water and
a number of closely
joined knives, which in
their revolution grind the
money to an excessive
fineness. Every day at
one o’clock three officials
meet at the macerator,
and the condemned
money is placed therein.

The operation thus goes
on from day to day. The
officials unlock the mac¬
erator and the liquid
pulp falls to be drained
in a pit below. The
residue, a wet and whitish-
grey mass, is then disposed

of, either to be sold for
book-binders’ boards or for
the souvenirs here shown.
The characteristic green
colour of the money has
disappeared, and nothing
remains of the greenback
in the souvenir except an
occasional letter or
number partly destroyed
which figured in some one
of the bills. Notwithstand¬
ing the millions of these
souvenirs which have been, manufactured—
representing, as they do, billions of money

—the output of
pulp in this form
is but a tittle
compared with
the total output of
macerated pulp.
The capacity of
the macerator is
one ton, and the
average amount
destroyed each
dayis$i,000,000.
The largest
amount ever de¬
stroyed in one day was $151,000,000, con¬
sisting of national bank-notes and United
States bonds. This oc¬
curred on June 27, 1894.
In early days the con¬
demned money was
burned, but owing to
the impossibility of put¬
ting every bill beyond
the possibility of detec¬
tion, the macerator was
adopted.

To-day it would be
impossible for the most
skilful manipulator to
make a five-dollar bill
out of one of these
souvenirs.

This, of course, does
not include the dealers,
who have already
made lots out of them
on account of their
popularity.

HARRISON HAT.
Value $5,000 (,£1,000).

Value $4,000 (,£800).

THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT.
Value $8,000 (,£1,600).

By E. Nesbit.

HIS is the tale of the wonders
that befell on the evening of
the nth of December, when
they did what they were told
not to do. You may think
that you know all the un¬
pleasant things that could possibly happen
to you if you are disobedient, but there
are some things which even you do not
know, and they did not know them either.

Their names were George and Jane.

There were no fireworks that year on Guy
Fawkes’ Day, because the heir to the throne
was not well. He was cutting his first tooth,
and that is a very anxious time for any
person—even for a Royal one. He was really
very poorly, so that fireworks would have
been in the worst possible taste, even at
Land’s End or in the Isle of Man, whilst in
Forest Hill, which was the home of Jane and
George, anything of the kind was quite out
of the question. Even the Crystal Palace,
empty-headed as it is, felt that this was no
time for Catherine-wheels.

But when the Prince had cut his tooth,
rejoicings were not only admissible but
correct, and the nth of December was
proclaimed firework day. All the people
were most anxious to show their loyalty, and

to enjoy themselves at the same time. So
there were fireworks and torchlight proces¬
sions, and set-pieces at the Crystal Palace,
with “Blessings on our Prince” and “Long
Live our Royal Darling ” in different
coloured fires; and the most private of
boarding schools had a half-holiday; and
even the children of plumbers and authors
had tuppence each given them to spend as
they liked.

George and Jane had sixpence each—and
they spent the whole amount in a “golden
rain,” which would not light for ever so long,
and, when it did light, went out almost at
once, so they had to look at the fireworks in
the gardens next door, and at the ones at
the Crystal Palace, which were very glorious
indeed.

All their relations had colds in their
heads, so Jane and George were allowed
to go out into the garden alone to let off
their firework. Jane had put on her fur
cape and her thick gloves, and her hood
with the silver-fox fur on it which was made
out of mother’s old muff; and George had
his overcoat' with the three capes, and his
comforter, and father’s sealskin travelling cap
with the pieces that come down over your
ears.

8oo

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

It was dark in the garden, but the fireworks
all about made it seem very gay, and though
the children were cold they were quite sure
that they were enjoying themselves.

They got up on the fence at the end of
the garden to see better; and then they
saw, very far away, where the edge of the
dark world is, a shining line of straight,
beautiful lights arranged in a row, as if they
were the spears carried by a fairy army.

“ Oh, how pretty,” said Jane. “ I wonder
what they are. It looks as if the fairies
were planting little shining baby poplar
trees, and watering them with liquid light.”

“ Liquid fiddlestick ! ” said George. He
had been to school, so he knew that these
were only the Aurora Borealis, or Northern
Lights. And he said so.

“ But what is the Rory Bory what’s-its-
name ? ” asked Jane. “ Who lights it, and
what’s it there for ? ”

George had to own that he had not learnt
that.

“ But I know,” said he, “ that it has some¬
thing to do with the Great Bear, and the
Dipper, and the Plough, and Charles’s
Wain.”

.“ And what are they ? ” asked Jane.

“ Oh, they’re the surnames of some of the
star families. There goes a jolly rocket,”
answered George, and Jane felt as if she
almost understood about the star families.

The fairy spears of light twinkled and
gleamed: they were much prettier than the
big, blaring, blazing bonfire that was smoking
and flaming and spluttering in the next-door-
but-one garden—prettier even than the
coloured fires at the Crystal Palace.

“ I wish we could see them nearer,” Jane
said. “ I wonder if the star families are nice
families—the kind that mother would like us
co go to tea with, if we were little stars?”

“ They aren’t that sort of families at all,
Silly,” said her brother, kindly trying to
explain. “ I only said ‘ families ’ because a
kid like you wouldn’t have understood if I’d
said constel. and, besides, I’ve for¬

gotten the end of the word. Anyway, the
stars are all up in the sky, so you can’t go to
tea with them.”

“ No,” said Jane ; “ I said if we were little
stars.”

“ But we aren’t,” said George.

“ No,” said Jane, with a sigh. “ I know
that. I’m not so stupid as you think,
George. But the Tory Bories are some¬
where at the edge. Couldn’t we go and see
them ? ”

“ Considering you’re eight, you haven’t

much sense.” George kicked his boots
against the paling to warm his toes. “ It’s
half the world away.”

“ It looks very near,” said Jane, hunching
up her shoulders to keep her neck warm.

“ They’re close to the North Pole,” said
George. “ Look here—I don’t care a straw
about the Aurora Borealis, but I shouldn’t
mind discovering the North Pole : it’s awfully
difficult and dangerous, and then you come
home and write a book about it with a lot of
pictures, and everybody says how brave you
are.”

Jane got off the fence.

“Oh, George, let's” she said. “We shall
never have such a chance again—all alone
by ourselves—and quite late, too.”

“ I’d go right enough if it wasn’t for you,”
George answered, gloomily, “ but you know
they always say I lead you into mischief—
and if we went to the North Pole we should
get our boots wet, as likely as not, and you
remember what they said about not going on
the grass.”

“ They said the lawn” said Jane. “We’re
not going on the hnvn. Oh, George, do, do
let’s. It doesn’t look so very far—we could
be back before they had time to get dread¬
fully angry.”

“ All right,” said George, “ but mind 1
don’t want to go.”

So off they went. They got over the fence,
which was very cold and white and shiny
because it was beginning to freeze, and on
the other side of the fence was somebody
else’s garden, so they got out of that as
quickly as they could, and beyond that was
a field where there was another big bonfire,
with people standing round it who looked
quite black.

“It’s like Indians,” said George, and
wanted to stop and look, but Jane pulled him
on, and they passed by the bonfire and got
through a gap in the hedge into another field
—a dark one ; and far away, beyond quite a
number of other dark fields, the Northern
Lights shone and sparkled and twinkled.

Now, during the winter the Arctic regions
come much farther south than they are
marked on the map. Very few people know
this, though you would think they could tell
it by the ice in the jugs of a morning. And
just when George and Jane were starting for
the North Pole, the Arctic regions had come
down very nearly as far as Forest Hill, so
that, as the children walked on, it grew colder
and colder, and presently they saw that the
fields were covered with snow, and there were
great icicles hanging from all the hedges and

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

801

gates. And the Northern Lights still seemed
some way off.

They were crossing a very rough, snowy
field when Jane first noticed the animals.
There were white rabbits and white hares, and
all sorts and sizes of white birds, and some
larger creatures in the shadows of the hedges
which Jane was sure were wolves and bears.

“ Polar bears and Arctic wolves, of course
I mean,” she said, for she did not want
George to think her
stupid again.

There was a great
hedge at the end of
this field, all covered
with snow and icicles ;
but the children
found a place where
there was a hole,
and as no bears or
wolves seemed to be
just in that part of
the hedge, they crept
through and scram¬
bled out of the frozen
ditch' on the other
side. And then they
stood still and held
their breath with
wonder.

For in. front of
them, running straight
and smooth right
away to the Northern
Lights, lay a great
wide road of pure
dark ice, and on
each side were tall
trees all sparkling with
white frost, and from
the boughs of the
trees hung strings of
stars threaded on fine
moonbeams, and
shining so brightly
that it was like a
beautiful fairy day¬
light. Jane s.aid so ;
but George said it
was like the electric
lights at the Earl’s
Court Exhibition.

The rows of trees went as straight as
ruled lines away—away and away—and at the
other end of them shone the Aurora Borealis.

There was a sign-post- of silvery snow—
and on it in letters of pure ice the children
read :—

“ This way to the No?'th Pole A

Vol. xvii.—101.

Then George said : “ Way or no way, I
know a slide when I see one—so here
goes.” And he took a run on the frozen
snow, and Jane took a run when she saw
him do it, and the next moment they were
sliding away, each with feet half a yard apart,
along the great slide that leads to the
North Pole.

This great slide is made for the con¬
venience of the Polar bears, who, during
the winter months,
get their food from
the Army and Navy
Stores—and it is the
most perfect slide in
the world. If you
have never come
across it, it is because
you have never let
off fireworks on the
nth of December,
and have never been
thoroughly naughty
and disobedient. But
do not be these things
in the hope of find¬
ing the great slide—
because you might
find something quite
different, and then
you would be sorry.

The great slide is
like . common; slides
in this,, that when
once you have'started
you have to.go on to
the end—unless you
fall down—and then
it hurts just as much
as the smaller kind
on ponds. The great
slide runs down-hill
all the way, so that
you keep on going
faster and faster and
faster. George and
Jane went so fast that
they had not time to
notice the scenery.
They only saw the
long lines of frosted
trees and the starry
lamps, and, on each side, rushing back as
they slid on—a very broad, white world and
a very large, black night; and overhead, as
well as in the trees, the stars were bright
like silver lamps, and, far ahead, shone and
trembled and sparkled the line of fairy
spears. Jane said that; and George said,

“ THIS WAY TO THE NORTH POLE.”

8o2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

“I can see the Northern Lights quite
plain.”

It is very pleasant to slide and slide and
slide on clear, dark ice—especially if you
feel you are really going somewhere, and
more especially if that somewhere is the
North Pole. The children’s feet made no
noise on the ice, and they went on and on in
a beautiful white silence. But suddenly the
silence was shattered and a cry rang out over
the snow.

“ Hi! You there ! Stop ! ”

“ Tumble for your life ! ” cried George, and
he fell down at once, because it is the only
way to stop. Jane fell on top of him—and
then they crawled on hands and knees to the
snow at the edge of the slide—and there
was a sportsman, dressed in a peaked cap
and a frozen moustache, like the one you see
in the pictures about Ice-Peter, and he had
a gun in his hand.

“ You don’t happen to have any bullets
about you?”
said he.

“ No,” George
said, truthfully.

“ I had five of
father’s revolver
cartridges, but
they were taken
away the day nurse
turned out my
pockets to see if
I had taken the
knob of the bath¬
room door by
mistake.”

“ Quite so,”
said the sports¬
man, “ these acci¬
dents will occur.

You don’t carry
fire-arms, then, I
presume ? ”

“ I haven’t any
i\xz-arvisE said
George, “ but I
have a fir e-work.

It’s only a squib
one of the boys gave me, if that’s any
good ”; and he began to feel among the
string, and peppermints, and buttons, and
tops, and nibs, and chalk, and foreign
postage-stamps in his knickerbocker pockets.

“ One could but try,” the sportsman
replied, and he held out his hand.

But Jane pulled at her brother’s jacket-
tail, and whispered, “Ask him what he
wants it for.”

and so away towards the North Pole and the
twinkling, beautiful lights.

The great slide went on and on, and the
lights did not seem to come much nearer,
and the white silence wrapped them round
as they slid along the wide, icy path. Then
once again the silence was broken to bits by
someone calling:—

“ Hi ! You there 1 Stop ! ”

“ Tumble for your life ! ” cried George, and

So then the sportsman had to confess
that he wanted the firework to kill the white
grouse with ; and, when they came to look,
there was the white grouse himself, sitting
in the snow, looking quite pgjle and care¬
worn, and waiting anxiously for the matter
to be decided one way or the other.

George put all the things back in his
pockets, and said, “ No, I sha’n’t. The
season for shooting him stopped yesterday—
I heard father say so—so it wouldn’t be fair,
anyhow. I’m very sorry; but I can’t—so
there ! ”

The sportsman said nothing, only he
shook his fist at Jane, and then he got on
the slide and tried to go towards the Crystal
Palace—which was not easy, because that way
is up-hill. So they left him trying, and went on.

Before they started the white grouse
thanked them in a few pleasant, well-chosen
words, and then they took a sideways slanting
run, and started off again on the great slide,

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

803

tumbled as before, stopping in the only
possible way, and Jane stopped on top of
him, and they crawled to the edge, and came
suddenly on the butterfly collector who was
looking for specimens with a pair of blue
glasses, and a blue net, and a blue book with
coloured plates.

“ Excuse me,” said the collector, “ but
have you such a thing as a needle about
you—a very long needle ? ”

“ I have a needle -book,”
replied Jane, politely, “ but
there aren’t any needles in it

“have yo.u such a thing as a needle about you?

now. George took them all to do the things
with pieces of cork—in the 4 Boy’s Own
Scientific Experimenter ’ and £ The Young
Mechanic.’ He did not do the things, but
he did for the needles.”

“ Curiously enough,” said the collector,

<£ I, too, wished to use the needle in connec¬
tion with cork.”

£< I have a hat-pin in my hood,” said Jane.

££ I fastened the fur with it when it caught in
the nail on the greenhouse door. It is very
long and sharp—would that do?”

“One could but try,” said the collector,
and Jane began to feel for the pin. But
George pinched her arm and whispered, ££ Ask
what he wants it for.” Then the collector

had to own that he wanted the pin to stick
through the great Arctic moth, ££ a magnifi¬
cent specimen,” he added, ££ which I am most
anxious to preserve.”

And there, sure enough, in the collector’s
butterfly-net sat the great Arctic moth
listening attentively to the conversation.

££ Oh, I couldn’t! ” cried Jane. And while
George was explaining to the collector that
they would really rather
not, Jane opened the
blue folds of the but¬
terfly - net, and asked
the moth, quietly, if it
would please step out¬
side for a moment.
And it did.

When the collector
saw that the moth was
free, he seemed less
angry than grieved.

££ Well, well,” said
he, ££ here’s a whole
Arctic expedition
thrown away ! I shall
have to go home and
fit out another. And
that means a lot of
writing to the papers
and things. You seem
to be a singularly
thoughtless little girl.”

So they went on,
leaving him, too, trying
to go up-hill towards the Crystal
Palace.

When the great white Arctic
moth had returned thanks in a
suitable speech, George and Jane
took a sideways slanting run and
started sliding again, between the
star-lamps along the great slide,
towards the North Pole. They
went faster and faster, and the lights
ahead grew brighter and brighter — so that
they could not keep their eyes open, but
had to blink and wink as they went—and
then suddenly the great slide ended in an
immense heap of snow, and George and Jane
shot right into it because they could not stop
themselves, and the snow was soft so that
they went in up to their very ears.

When they had picked themselves out, and
thumped each other on the back to get rid
of the snow, they shaded their eyes and
looked, and there, right in front of them, was
the wonder of wonders—the North Pole—
towering high and white and glistening, like
an ice-lighthouse, and it was quite, quite

804

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

close, so that you had to put your head as
far back as it would go, and farther, before
you could see the high top of it. It was
made entirely of ice. You will hear grown-up
people talk a great deal of nonsense about
the North Pole, and when you are grown-up,
it is even possible that you may talk non¬
sense about it yourself (the most unlikely
things do happen); but deep down in your
heart you must always remember that the
North Pole is made of clear ice, and could
not possibly, if you come to think of it, be
made of anything else.

All round the Pole, making a bright ring
about it, were hundreds of little fires, and
the flames of them did not flicker and twist,
but went up blue and green and rosy and
straight like the stalks of dream lilies.

Jane said so, but George said they were
as straight as ramrods.

And these flames were the Aurora Borealis
—which the children had seen as far away as
Forest Hill.

The ground was quite flat, and covered
with smooth, hard snow, which shone and
sparkled like the top of a birthday cake
which has been iced at home. The ones
done at the shops do not shine and sparkle,
because they mix flour with the icing-sugar.

“It is like a
dream,” said Jane.

And George said,

“ It is the North
Pole. Just think of
the fuss people
always make about
getting here — and
it was no trouble at
all, really.”

“ I daresay lots
of people have got
here,” said Jane, dis¬
mally ; “ ids not the
getting here —I see
that — it’s the get-
ting back again.

Perhaps no one will
ever know that we
have been here, and
the robins will cover
us with leaves
and-”

“ Nonsense,” said
George, “there
aren’t any robins,
and there aren’t any
leaves. It’s just the
North Pole, that’s
all, and I’ve found

it ; and now I shall try to climb up and
plant the British flag on the top—my hand¬
kerchief will do ; and if it really is the North
Pole, my pocket-compass Uncle James gave
me will spin round and round, and then I
shall know. Come on.”

So Jane came on; and when they got
close to the clear, tall, beautiful flames they
saw that there was a great, queer-shaped
lump of ice all round the bottom of the
Pole—clear, smooth, shining ice, that was
deep, beautiful Prussian blue, like icebergs,
in the thick parts, and all sorts of wonderful,
glimmery, shimmery, changing colours in the
thin parts, like the cut-glass chandelier in
grandmamma’s house in London.

“ It is a very curious shape,” said Jane;
“ it’s almost like ”—she drew back a step to
get a better view of it—“ it’s almost like a
dragon .”

“ It’s much more like the lamp-posts on
the Thames Embankment,” said George, who
had noticed a curly thing like a tail that went
twisting up the North Pole.

“ Oh, George,” cried Jane, “ it is a dragon ;
I can see its wings. Whatever shall we do ? ”

And, sure enough, it was a dragon—a
great, shining, winged, scaly, clawy, big¬
mouthed dragon—made of pure ice. It

“sure enough, it was a dragon . 1

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

805

must have gone to sleep curled round the
hole where the .warm steam used to come
up from the middle of the earth, and then
when the earth got colder, and the column
of steam froze and was turned into the North
Pole, the dragon must have got frozen in his
sleep—frozen too hard to move—and there
he stayed. # And though he was very terrible
he was very beautiful, too.

Jane said so, but George said, “ Oh, don’t
bother; I’m thinking how to get on to the
Pole and try the compass without waking the
brute.”

The dragon certainly was beautiful, with
his deep, clear Prussian-blueness, and his
rainbow-coloured glitter. And rising from
within the cold coil of the frozen dragon the
North Pole shot up like a pillar made of one
great diamond, and every now and then it
cracked a little, from sheer coldness. The
sound of the cracking was the only thing that
broke the great white silence in the midst of
which the dragon lay like an enormous jewel,
and the straight flames went up all round
him like the stalks of tall lilies.

And as the children stood there looking at
the most wonderful sight their eyes had ever
seen, there was a soft padding of feet and a
hurry-scurry behind them, and from the out¬
side darkness beyond the flame-stalks came
a crowd of little brown creatures running,
jumping, scrambling, tumbling head over
heels, and on all fours, and some even walk¬
ing on their heads. They caught hands as
they came near the fires, and danced round
in a ring.

“It’s bears,” said Jane; “I know it is.
Oh, how' I wish we hadn’t come; and my
boots are so wet.”

The dancing-ring broke up suddenly, and
the next moment hundreds of furry arms
clutched at George and Jane, and they found
themselves in the middle of a great, soft,
heaving crowd of little fat people in brown
fur dresses, and the white silence was quite
gone.

“ Bears, indeed,” cried a shrill voice;
“ you’ll wish we were bears before you’ve
done with us.”

This sounded so dreadful, that Jane began
to cry. Up to now the children had only
seen the most beautiful and wondrous things,
but now they began to be sorry they had
done what they were told not to, and the
difference between “ lawn ” and “ grass ” did
not seem so great as it had done at Forest
Hill.

Directly Jane began to cry, all the brown
people started back. No one cries in the

Arctic regions for fear of being struck so by
the frost. So that these people had never
seen anyone cry before.

“ Don’t cry really ,” whispered George, “ or
you’ll get chilblains in your eyes. But
pretend to howl—it frightens them.”

So Jane went on pretending to howl, and
the real crying stopped: it always does
when you begin to pretend. You try it.

Then, speaking very loud so as to be
heard over the howls of Jane, George said:

“ Yah—who’s afraid ? We are George and
Jane—who are you?”

“We are the sealskin dwarfs,” said the
brown people, twisting their furry bodies in
and out of the crowd like the changing glass
in kaleidoscopes ; “we are very precious and
expensive, for we are made, throughout, of
the very best sealskin.”

“ And what are those fires for ? ” bellowed
George—for Jane was crying louder and
louder.

“Those,” shouted the dwarfs, coming a
step nearer, “ are the fires we make to thaw
the dragon. He is frozen now—so he sleeps
curled up round the Pole—but when we
have thawed him with our fires he will
wake up and go and eat everybody in the
world except us.”

“ Whatever—do—you—want—him—to—
do—that—for?” yelled George.

“ Oh—just for spite,” bawled the dwarfs,
carelessly—as if they were saying “ Just for
fun.”

Jane left off crying to say: “You are
heartless.”

“ No, we aren’t,” they said ; “ our hearts
are made of the finest sealskin, just like
little fat sealskin purses-”

And they all came a step nearer. They
were very fat and round. Their bodies were
like sealskin jackets on a very stout person;
their heads were like sealskin muffs; their
legs were like sealskin boas; and their hands
and feet were like sealskin tobacco-pouches.
And their faces were like seals’ faces, inas¬
much as they, too, were covered with seal¬
skin. _ -

“ Thank you so much for telling us,” said
George. “ Good evening. (Keep on howl¬
ing, Jane !)”

But the dwarfs came a step nearer, mutter-,
ing and whispering. Then the muttering
stopped—and there was a silence so deep
that Jane was afraid to howl in it. But it
was a brown silence, and she had liked the
white silence better.

Then the chief dwarf came quite close
and said : “What’s that on your head? ”

8o6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

And George felt it was all up—for he knew
it was his father’s sealskin cap.

The dwarf did not wait for an answer.
“ It’s made of one of us ,” he screamed, “ or
else one of the seals ; our poor relations.
Boy, now your fate is sealed ! ”

And looking at the wicked seal-faces all
around them George and Jane felt that their
fate was sealed indeed.

The dwarfs seized the children in their
furry arms. George kicked, but it is no use

“ THE DWARFS SEIZED THE CHILDREN’.”

kicking sealskin, and Jane howled, but the
dwarfs were getting used to that. They
climbed up the dragon’s side and dumped
the children down on his icy spine, with
their backs against the North Pole. You
have no idea how cold it was—the kind of
cold that makes you feel small and prickly
inside your clothes, and makes you wish you

had twenty times as many clothes to feel
small and prickly inside of.

The sealskin dwarfs tied George and
Jane to the North Pole, and, as they had no
ropes, they bound them with snow-wreaths,
which are very strong when they are made in
the proper way, and they heaped up the fires
very close and said :—

“Now the dragon will get warm, and when
he gets warm he will wake, and when he wakes
he will be hungry, and when he is hungry he
will begin to eat, and the first
thing he will eat will be you.”

The little, sharp, many-coloured
flames sprang up like the stalks
of dream lilies, but no heat came
to the children, and they grew
colder and colder.

“We sha’n’t be very nice
when the dragon does eat us,
that’s one comfort,” said George;
“ we shall be turned into ice
long before that.”

Suddenly there was a flapping
of wings, and the white grouse
perched on the dragon’s head
and said:—

“ Can I be of any assistance ? ”
Now by this time the children
were so cold, so cold, so very,
very cold, that they had for¬
gotten everything but that,
and they could say nothing
else. So the white grouse
said :—

“ One moment. I am only
too grateful for this oppor¬
tunity of showing my sense of
your manly conduct about the firework ! ”

And the next moment there was a soft
whispering rustle of wings overhead, and then,
fluttering slowly, softly down, came hundreds
and thousands of little white fluffy feathers.
They fell on George and Jane like snowflakes,
and, like flakes of fallen snow lying one above
another, they grew into a thicker and thicker
covering, so that presently the children were
buried under a heap of white feathers, and
only their faces peeped out.

“ Oh, you dear, good, kind white grouse,”
said Jane ; “ but you’ll be cold yourself, won’t
you, now you have given us all your pretty
dear feathers ? ”

The white grouse laughed, and his laugh
was echoed by thousands of kind, soft bird-
voices.

“ Did you think all those feathers came
out of one breast ? There are hundreds and
hundreds of us here, and every one of us can

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

807

spare a little tuft of soft breast feathers to
help to keep two kind little hearts warm ! ”
Thus spoke the grouse, who certainly had
very pretty manners.

So now the children snuggled under the
feathers and were warm, and when the seal¬
skin dwarfs tried to take the feathers away,
the grouse and his friends flew in their faces
with flappings and screams, and drove the
dwarfs back. They are a cowardly folk.

The dragon had not moved yet—but
then he might at any moment get warm
enough to move, and though George and
Jane were now warm they were not comfort¬
able, nor easy in their minds. They tried to
explain to the grouse; but though he is
polite, he is not clever, and he only said :—

“ You’ve got a warm nest, and we’ll see
that no one takes it from you. What more
can you possibly want? ”

Just then came a new, strange, jerky
fluttering, of wings far softer than the grouse’s,
and George and Jane cried out together :—

“ Oh, do mind your wings in the fires ! ”

Tor they saw at once that it was the
great white Arctic moth.

“ What’s the matter ? ” he asked, settling
on the dragon’s tail.

So they told him.

“ Sealskin, are they ? ” said the moth ;
“just you wait a minute ! ”

He flew off very crookedly, dodging the
flames, and presently he came back, and
there were so many moths with him that it
was as if a live sheet of white wingedness
were suddenly drawn between the children
and the stars.

And then the doom of the bad sealskin
dwarfs fell suddenly on them.

For the great sheet of winged whiteness
broke up and fell, as snow falls, and it fell
upon the sealskin dwarfs; and every snow¬
flake of it was a live, fluttering, hungry moth,
that buried its greedy nose deep in the seal¬
skin fur.

Grown-up people will tell you that it is not
moths but moths’ children who eat fur—but
this is only when they are trying to deceive
you. When they are not thinking about you
they say, “ I fear the moths have got at my
ermine tippet,” or, “ Your poor Aunt Emma
had a lotely sable cloak, but it was eaten by
moths.” And now there were more moths
than have ever been together in this world
before, all settling on the sealskin dwarfs.

The dwarfs did not see their danger till it
was too late. Then they called for camphor
and bitter apple, and oil of lavender, and
yellow soap and borax; and some of the

dwarfs even started to get these things, but
long before any of them could get to the
chemist’s, all was over. The moths ate, and
ate, and ate, till the sealskin dwarfs, being-
sealskin throughout, even to the empty hearts #
of them, were eaten down to the very life—
and they fell one by one on the snow and so
came to their end. And all round the North
Pole the snow was brown with their flat
bare pelts.

“ Oh, thank you—thank you, darling Arctic
moth,” cried Jane. “ You are good—I do
hope you haven’t eaten enough to disagree
with you afterwards ! ”

Millions of moth-voices answered, with
laughter as soft as moth-wings, “ We should
be a poor set of fellows if we couldn’t over¬
eat ourselves for once in a way—to oblige a
friend.”

And off they all fluttered, and the white
grouse flew off, and the sealskin dwarfs were
all dead, and the fires went out, and George
and Jane were left alone in the dark with the
dragon !

“Oh, dear,” said Jane, “this is the worst
of all! ”

“We’ve no friends left to help us,” said
George. He never thought that the dragon
himself might help them—but then that was
an idea that would never have occurred to
any boy.

It grew colder and colder and colder, and
even under the grouse feathers the children
shivered.

Then, when it was so cold that it could
not manage to be any colder without break¬
ing the thermometer, it stopped. And then
the dragon uncurled himself from round the
North Pole, and stretched his long, icy length
over the snow, and said :—

“ This is something like ! How faint those
fires did make me feel! ”

The fact was, the sealskin dwarfs had gone
the wrong way to work : the dragon had been
frozen so long that now he was nothing but
solid ice all through, and the fires only made
him feel as if he were going to die.

But when the fires were out he felt quite
well, and very hungry, He looked round for
something to eat. But he never noticed
George and Jane, because they were frozen
to his back.

He moved slowly off, and the snow-wreaths
that bound the children to the Pole gave way
with a snap, and there was the dragon, crawl¬
ing south—with Jane and George on his
great, scaly, icy shining back. Of course
the dragon had to go south if he went any¬
where, because when you get to the North

8 o8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Pole there is no other way to go. The
dragon rattled and tinkled as he went,
exactly like the cut-glass chandelier when you
touch it, as you are strictly forbidden to do.
Of course there are a million ways of going
•south from the North Pole—so you will own
that it was lucky for George and Jane when
the dragon took the right way and suddenly
got his heavy feet on the great slide. Off he
went, full speed, between the starry lamps,
towards Forest Hill and the
Crystal Palace.

“ He’s going to take us
home,” said Jane. “ Oh,
he is a good dragon. I
am glad! ”

“off he went, full speed.”

And George was rather glad too, though
neither of the children felt at all sure of their
welcome, especially as their feet were wet,
and they were bringing a strange dragon
home with them.

They went very fast, because dragons can
go up hill as easily as down. You would
not understand why if I told you—because
you are only in long division at present;
yet if you want me to tell you, so that
you can show off to other boys, I will. It
is because dragons can get their tails into
the fourth dimension and hold on there,

and when you can do that everything else
is easy.

The dragon went very fast, only stopping
to eat the collector and the sportsman, who
were still struggling to go up the slide—
vainly, because they had no tails, and had
never even heard of the fourth dimension.

And when the dragon got to the end ol
the slide he crawled very slowly across the
dark field beyond the field where there was
a bonfire, next tc
the next-door gar¬
den at Forest Hill.
He went slower
and slower, and in
the bonfire field
he stopped alto¬
gether, and, be¬
cause .the Arctic
regions had not
got down so far as
that, and because
the bonfire was
very hot, the dra¬
gon began to melt,
and melt, and melt
—and before the
children knew
what he was doing
they found them¬
selves sitting in a
large pool of water,
and their boots
were as wet as wet, and there
x . . was not a bit of dragon left !

So they went indoors.

Of course some grown-up or
other noticed at once that the
boots of George and of Jane
were wet and muddy, and that
they had both been sitting down in a very damp
place, so they were sent to bed immediately.

It was long past their time, anyhow.

Now, if you are of an inquiring mind—
not at all a nice thing in a little boy who
reads fairy tales—you will want to know how
it is that since the sealskin dwarfs have all
been killed, and the fires all been let out,
the Aurora Borealis shines, on cold nights,
as brightly as ever.

My dear, I do not know ! I am not too
proud* to own that there are some things I
know nothing about—and this is one of
them. But I do know that whoever has
lighted those fires again, it is certainly not the
sealskin dwarfs. They were all eaten by
moths—and moth-eaten things are of no use,
even to light fires !

Curiosities*

[ We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section , and to pay for such as are accepted. ]

OVER TWO YEARS
ASLEEP.

This is the photograph of a
young lady, resident in Warsaw,
who went to sleep on December
2ist, 1896, and has never been
awakened, in the fullest sense of
the term, ever since. She lies in
an almost dark room because she
is unable to bear any light, on
account of the severe headache it
causes her, and her bed is. sur¬
rounded with a heavy curtain.
During the protracted period of
her slumber she has almost lost
her hearing, and she can only see
in the afternoon towards four
o’clock, and from that hour she
can see until daybreak. She has
no wish to eat, and life is sus¬
tained by nourishing her with milk.
Her sister and widowed mother
take it in turns to watch by her
side, and they are obliged to wake

her up from time to time, other¬
wise she would sleep on for ever.
Strange to say, the awakening
causes her dreadful agony both
physically and mentally, for then
she not only has a recurrence of
the headaches, but she realizes the
hopelessness of her awful situation.
Asked how she felt when asleep,
she replied : Then I am very

happy ; because not only do I not
suffer, but I feel delightful. My
soul separates from my body, and
goes into another world. I rise
into infinity, heavenly light sur¬
rounds me, I hear marvellous
music. Oh, Lord ! why do they
wake me up and drag me from
that other world, so beautiful, to
this earth, so full of misery and
tears ? ” The physician who has
attended her for a long time
believes there is still some possi¬
bility of a cure being effected.

A CONTEMPLATIVE
1 JORSE.

The horse seen in
the ludicrous attitude
shown in the accom¬
panying photograph
has a significant air of
contemplation about
him notwithstanding.
Probably he was try¬
ing to decide the point
whether life is worth
living. At any rate
he had been sitting in
this curious position
for some time before
the photographer came
along and snap-shot¬
ted him. The photo¬
graph was sent in to
us by Mr. E. V. Fear,
Essex Lodge, 58, Cot-
ham Road, Bristol.

Vol. xvii.—102.

* Copyright, 1899, by George Newnes, Limited.

AN ARMY OF CYCLES.

The great display of bicycles seen in the
accompanying photograph formed quite an
accidental though none the less significantly
striking feature of the Braemar Highland
Gathering at Balmoral, in September of
last year. The machines belong to both
lady and gentleman cyclists, who trooped
to the sports on their iron steeds from far
and near, and this was the way these were
stacked during the progress of the festival.
There is a curious air of assured security
pervading the scene, but one shudders to
think of the awful damage that could be
inflicted by a horse or two straying amongst
those lines of bicycles. Her Majesty the
Queen was present at the sports. The
photograph was sent in by Mr. David
Gibson, care of Mrs. Hogg, 4, Dalkeith
Road, Edinburgh.

8 io

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

WHAT A CYCLONE IS
LIKEj

Mr. Ernest G. Brayton, ofMt.
Morris, Illinois, writes : “ This
is a photograph of a cyclone
which passed half a mile south
of this city on May 18th, 1898.
The £ twister ’ started nearly four
hundred miles south-west of here,
and travelled in a direct line,
passing here about 5.30 p.m. To
the left of the picture you can see
the trees standing apparently
unshaken—in fact, they have as
yet scarcely been touched by the
advance - guard of the terrific
storm ; a few minutes after the
snap-shot was taken these very
trees were uprooted and spread
over an acre or more of ground.
The photographer himself was
nearly a mile away from the
edge of the cyclone, but never¬
theless the breeze which followed
LOOKING DOWN SEVEN HUNDRED STEPS. it was enough to blow the camera over and

Our next photograph represents a flight of 700 send the operator reeling. The cyclone passed

steps, without a break, used by the inhabitants of through two States, leaving about forty families

St. Helena as a short
cut from the town to the
top of the hill. The
photograph was taken
from the topmost step,
with the camera point¬
ing slightly downwards,
hence the curious result
obtained. Dr. D. J.

Drake, of 18, Minster
Road, Brondesbury, the
sender, writes: “The
task of ascending and
descending these steps
is no light one, and
after alighting at the
top or the bottom, one’s
legs feel as if they
belonged to some other
individual, and play all
kinds of pranks upon
their owner.”

homeless, and destroying one hun¬
dred thousand dollars’ worth of

property. ”-

A HOUSE IN A TREE.

Houses in trees are evidently
not exclusively confined to such
outlandish places as New Guinea
and the like. Here we have a
photograph of a quaint little tene¬
ment in a lime tree at Pitchford,
Salop. Murray, in his handbook
of the district, describes it as a
“habitation,” but the Rev. A.
Corlett, of Adderley Rectory,
Market Drayton, the sender of the
photograph, says that the term is
somewhat misleading, the building
being a single room without a
fireplace. It has a wooden frame
with plaster walls and a stone-
covered roof. It is said to have
been in its present position 200
years.

CURIOSITIES.

811

A BRIDE’S JACKET.

An interesting marriage custom is in vogue amongst
the mill-girls on the Scottish borders. When one of
their number has announced her intention of quitting
the factory to prepare for her wedding, her fellow-
workers contrive to hide some portion of her wearing
apparel, generally a jacket or an apron. Then each
one subscribes a small sum of money, which is ex¬
pended in the purchase of all kinds of gaudy yarns,
lace, ribbons, dolls, toys, etc. With these the
“stolen” garment is surreptitiously decorated and
produced at the ensuing wedding festivities, when one
of the party creates hearty amusement by donning it
and dancing a reel in it. We reproduce a photo, of
a jacket belonging to a Hawick factory bride, which
has been sent in by Mr. J. G. Galbraith, Exchange
Arcade, Hawick, N.B. It originally was but a plain
black jacket, but the owner’s friends had transformed
it into a perfect blaze of colour. Notice the bells,
hens, doll, and baby’s bottle with the washing outfit
below. Photo, taken by Richard Bell, Hawick.

A WHOLESALE CONFISCATION.

According to the Foreign Prison-Made Goods Act
of 1887 the Customs authorities are given power to
confiscate any goods imported for sale into this
country that have been produced wholly or in part in

A MIGHTS; PUSH.

The box-car seen in the remarkable position shown
in our next photograph was being pushed along the
Barclay railroad, about
a mile from Tovvanda,
Pa., when a local
freight engine with ex¬
tremely long bumpers
struck it. These
bumpers were knocked
into such a position
as actually to form
an incline up which
the box-car ascended
with an impetus that
landed it right on
the top of the engine
itself. Mr. Edw.
Macfarlane, of 108,
Poplar Street,
Towanda, Pa., is the
sender of the photo-
graph.

any foreign prison, and
dispose of them in
any way that may be
deemed advisable.
The huge pile of
cocoa - fibre doormats
seen in the accompany¬
ing photograph was
made in a Belgium
penal colony and ex¬
ported to England as
a cheap line of goods,
but the Customs
authorities at Parke-
ston took possession of
them and burnt them
on the beach of the
Stour estuary. The
mats were valued at
between ^”200 and
I300. We are in¬
debted to Mrs. Hilda
M. Oddie, of North
Lodge, Horsham, for
the use of this photo.

812

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

megaphone. The
scene which the photo¬
grapher, Mr. J. E.
Slocum, has caught
here with his camera
is in front of the
Republican head¬
quarters of San Diego
County, and not the
least interesting thing
in the picture is the
huge display sign in
front of the head¬
quarters. The city is
the town home of
U. S. Grant, a candi¬
date for the United
States Senate, which
fact lent additional in¬
terest and enthusiasm
to the campaign.
Photo, sent by Mr. D.
C. Collier, Junr., of
San Diego, California.

LOOKING UP A
CHIMNEY.

Here is an interior

A REFLECTION PICTURE.

The next photograph we reproduce represents a
scene in Baaken’s River Kloof, near Port Elizabeth,
South Africa. Viewed in its present position the
picture has the appearance of a large tree with a
couple of rocks falling from the branches ; turn it to
the left, and these rocks are apparently falling from the
sky ; but turn it to the right, and the real picture is
disclosed. The curious effects pointed out are all
due to reflections. Photo, sent by Mr. C. A. Smith,
P.O. Box 23, Port Elizabeth, Cape Colony.

A MONSTROUS MEGAPHONE.

The next photograph we reproduce represents a
monstrous horn, which formed an interesting feature
in the American political campaign that ended in
November of last year. The horn is 14ft. long and
has seven mouthpieces, one of which can be used as a

Governor.

view of a factory
chimney, which has
been newly built. It is
located at the works
of the Tasmanian
Smelting Company,
Zeehan, Tasmania.
The sender of the
photo., Mr. C. A.
Owen, Junr., of Zee¬
han,Tasmania, writes:
“ Many of the ‘ look¬
ing upward ’ photo¬
graphs hitherto pub¬
lished in your Maga¬
zine have been of
objects which can
easily be re-photo¬
graphed at any time,
but this one I send
was taken from a spot
which, in a fevy weeks,
will, to say the least
of it, be a very un¬
comfortable place for
a photographer or
anybody else.”

CURIOSITIES.

813

THE FLASH-LIGHT THAT FAILED.

The clanger of experimenting with the flash-light is
forcibly illustrated in our next photograph, which has
been sent in by Mr. F. W. Marshall, 2, Limburg Road,
Battersea Rise, S.W. The incident happened after
the rehearsal of a semi - amateur production at a
theatre in the south-west of England. A local photo¬
grapher desired to ascertain how a new flash-light
idea would work out, and arranged matters accordingly,
but on pressing the button, lo ! the whole apparatus
“ went bust.” A fountain of liquid fire was thrown
up to the height of the proscenium and spread all
over the stage, which luckily was pretty clear at the
time, and comparatively little damage was therefore
done. The explosion was so instantaneous that the
negative had taken the scene before the flames had
reached their full height, and, as may be noticed, the
people on the stage had not had time to be startled.

A PLAYFUL STEAM ROLLER.

Steam rollers are very stodgy, ponderous-looking
things, but they can be very self-willed and even
playful at times. The one seen in our photograph
has come to grief as the result of giving way to a
frolicsome mood. One day, when it was at work at
the Keyham Docks, it suddenly got beyond the control
of the driver, who attempted to put on the brake but
found it would not act. He managed to save his life
by jumping off the engine, which, however, went

side of

- . xv.mumv.i;, uiuc was a

sufficient depth of water in. the dock at the
time to break its fall. Photo, sent by Mr. E. M.
Parry, of 26, Crane Street, Chester.

A CURIOUS GATE.

Here is a photograph of the cast-iron panel of a
gate at the entrance to a carriage-drive leading to a
house near Keighley. If examined closely, the "design
will be found to contain pictures of various animals,
from a kangaroo to a snake, in addition to innumer¬
able inanimate objects, such as boots, bottles, and
hammers. At the top of the panel are the initials
“ B. F. M.,' 5 whilst near the centre, just under the
star and crescent, is a correct outline of the house to
which the gate gives entrance. We are indebted to
Mr. Clarence Ponting, of Flosh House, Keighley, for
the use of the photograph.

814

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

A NOVELTY IN
SUITS.

This is not some
new weird instrument
of torture, but a
Y-shaped pipe intended
to join together two
sections of an elevator.
The snap - shot was
taken by Mr. E. Bonner,
manager of the Cariboo
Gold Fields, British
Columbia, whose
brother is seen disport¬
ing himself inside the
pipe. The effect is very
curious, and one won¬
ders what the result
would be should the
wearer of this novelty
in suits attempt to get
up and walk. We are
indebted to Mrs. G.
M. Bonner, Wanstead,
Essex, for the photo.

A LEGEND OF THE HARZ MOUNTAINS.

Miss E. C. Emerson, of Heinrich Strasse
34, Hanover, Germany, writes: “This
old picture illustrates the following legend
of the Harz Mountains. Bodo, the wicked
Bohemian King, fell violently in love with
Brunnhildis, daughter of the King of the
Giants, who in those days inhabited the
region. Annoyed by his vehement atten¬
tions, she fled from him on her fiery steed,
closely pursued by her suitor. At the spot
where the witches hold their nightly revels,
a yawning abyss stopped, for a moment,
their wild flight, but the Princess urged
on her charger to the terrible leap across
the chasm. The noble animal bore his
mistress in safety to the opposite height, his
hoof sinking deep into the solid rock, so
that the gigantic hoof-print is visible to
this day on the ‘ Rosstrappe.’ The golden
crown fell from the Princess’s head, and is still guarded
by pixies at the bottom of the river. Her wicked lover,
unable to imitate her bold spring, was precipitated
into the depths of the stream, which is called after
him, the Bode.” Photo, by F. Rose, Muhlenthal.

A CURIOUS LITTLE GARDEN.

The dilapidated-looking pair of shoes seen in our
next photo, were found only a few days before Easter
this year near the village of Gundershofen, in Alsatia,
behind the very hedge where they had evidently been
discarded some years
before by a tramp. In
the course of time they
had become filled with
dust from the road, and
moss had covered the
outside more or less.
The seeds of the snow¬
drops seen blooming
on them had evidently
been carried into the
shoes by the wind. It
was not found possible
to take the photo, on the
spot of discovery, but
Count Alfred Bothmer,
of Wiesbaden, the
sender, writes that it
must not be imagined
that this little garden
lias been arranged by
human hands.

—

CURIOSITIES.

815

SHORTEST RAILWAY

IN THE WORLD.

This curious little
American railway,
which is only a rail in
length, is situated in
the Olympic Range of
mountains, in Washing¬
ton, about a hundred
miles north - west of
Seattle. It is of stany
dard guage, and is
properly ballasted. It
was evidently built for
the purpose of holding
the “right of way”
through the mountain
pass, but has been in
existence for several
years now without

the holes left by rotten branches. The photograph
was sent in by Mr. William A. Rae, of Survey
Camp, Parkes, New South Wales.

A ROADWAY THROUGH A HOUSE.

Here is a curious instance of the pertinacity of a
landowner. A new bridge to cross the River Tay
at Perth being in course of erection, it was found
necessary to acquire a right of way through certain
grounds on which a house also stood. The owner
of the house and grounds, however, would only sell
on compulsion, and then only so much as was
absolutely necessary for the erection of the bridge.
As this portion did not include the whole of the
house, only the middle part was taken down, the
two ends left standing, as seen in our photograph,
remaining in possession of the owner. Of course
when the bridge is completed these ends will have
to come down. Our photograph was taken by Mr.
Sam. A. Forbes, of Perth, and forwarded by
Mr. David Inglis, of the Inland Revenue, Perth.

being extended in any
way. Mr. T. H. Parker,
Room 1, over 415, Dundas
Street, Woodstock, On¬
tario, in sending us the
photograph, writes to say
that his brother, Mr. W.
D. Dawson, Postmaster at
Piedmont, Washington,
which is the nearest post-
office to this unique rail¬
way, forwarded the photo¬
graph to him, which was
taken by J. E. Thomas,
Port Angeles, Washington.

A TREE ON FIRE.

Above is a snap-shot of
a hollow tree on fire in an
Australian forest 300 miles
north - west of Sydney.
The smoke from the fire
within is pouring out of

8 i6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

A PALM-FIG TREE,

About eight miles from Plymouth, the capital of
Montserrat, one of the Leeward Island group of the
Caribbean Islands, may be seen the natural freak here
shown, viz., a tall palm tree growing from the centre
of a fig tree. Both trees are vigorous and healthy,
and are situated on a partly abandoned sugar estate.
Sender of photo., Mr. E. C. Jackman, Fonlabelle,
Barbados, W.I. _

“TWELVE YEARS IN CHAINS.”

The narrative of this gentleman’s adventures will
be found one of the most thrilling stories on record,
even in the annals of the world’s personal adven¬
ture. The photo, shows us Mr. Chas. Neufeld as
he used to sit writing
in the dread Saier prison
at Omdurman. Mr. Neu¬
feld was a German mer¬
chant, and away back in
the eighties his caravan
was betrayed in the
desert by a treacherous
guide, and he himself
taken captive to Omdur¬
man, theMahdi’s capital.

Here, for twelve long
years, Mr. Neufeld en¬
dured the most frightful
tortures and extraordi¬
nary adventures, until at
length the victorious Sir¬
dar, Lord Kitchener of
Khartoum, entered Om¬
durman and struck off his
chains. This remark¬
able and thrilling narra¬
tive will make its first
appearance in The
Wide World Magazine,
and the first instal¬
ment will be found in the

THE EFFECT OF LIGHTNING.

This is the appearance presented by a chimney
situated in Wakefield, Mass., after it had been struck
by lightning on March 12th, 1899. As will be seen,
practically the whole of the outer wall was stripped
clean off, leaving the inner shell standing perfectly
sound. Photo, sent by Mr. John S. Griffiths, 73,
Pleasant Street, Wakefield, Mass.

June number of that periodical. This astounding nar¬
rative is already much talked of, and it is likely to be
long before the romance
of real life produces any¬
thing to rival it in
interest, for, as civiliza¬
tion advances, such
stories must necessarily
become rarer and rarer.
Mr. Neufeld’s nar¬
rative will be copiously
illustrated with photo¬
graphs, plans, and
special drawings by Mr.
Charles H. Sheldon,
the well-known war
artist, who is well
acquainted with the
.Soudan. The first instal¬
ment of the story—which
in many respects casts a
new light on history—is
prefaced by an intro¬
duction from the pen of
Sir George Newnes,
Bart., whose advice and
assistance Mr. Neufeld
sought when he reached
Cairo.

INDEX.

PAGE

AIR, LIQUID. By Ray Stannard Baker ... ... . " .459

(Illustrations from Photographs.)

ANIMAL ACTUALITIES.

VIII. — The Disappearing Chickens ... ... 104

IX.—Three-Legged Tommy . .222

X.— Tile Puppy’s Amazement. .226

XI.— Sauce for the Goose, Sauce for the Gander . ... 301

XII.—Instinct Gone Wrong . . .. 571

XIII.—A Chip of the Old Block . . ••• 7 2 7

{Illustrations by J. A. Shepherd. )

ANIMAL FRIENDSHIP. By Albert H. Broadwei.l . 42

(Illustrations from Photographs.)

AUNT SARAH’S BROOCH. By Arthur Morrison.206

{Illustrations by O. Eckhardt, R.B.A.)

BENEVOLENT ’BUS, THE. By John Oxenham . 75 °

{Illustrations by \V. S. Stacey.)

“BIGGEST ON RECORD”— I. By George Dollar ..: .. .265

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

BRAMPTON OF BRAMPTON, BARON (Sir Henry Hawkins). By “ E.” . 318

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

BROAD ARROW, THE. By E. M. Jameson .289

{Illustrations by W. S. Stacey. )

BURNE-JONES TO A CHILD, LETTERS OF. . 375

{Illustrated by Facsimiles and Sketches.)

CA . . . . T CAME BACK, THE. By John Oxenham . ... 546

{Illustrations by W. S. Stacey. )

CAVALANCI’S CURSE. By Henry A. IIering. s . 3°5

{Illustrations by Claude A. Shepperson.)

CLEOPATRA’S NEEDLE, THE STORY OF. By Susie Esplen . 135

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

COTTON WOOL PRINCESS, THE. A StorY for Children. From the Italian of Luigi

Capuana . . i°8

{Illustrations by 11 . R. M1 i.lar.)

CRYSTAL, A COMMON. By John R. Watkins . 174

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

CURIOSITIES . 11 7 , 235, 355, 491, 611, S09

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

Si8 THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

PAG K

DERBY WINNER, REARING A .706

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

DRAWING A BADGER. By Edmund Mitcheli. .167

(Illustrations by Norman Hardv. )

EDEN, THE SITE OF THE GARDEN OF. By General Gordon .314

(Illustrations from Maps by General Gordon.)

EXTRAORDINARY STORY, AN. By Neil Wynn Williams .619

[Illustrations l>y S1 DNey 1 \\(;et. )

FALSE COLOURS. By W. W. Jacobs . 97

[Illustrations by W. S. Stacey.)

FLYING-MACHINE, TIIE NEWEST. By Herbert C. Fyfe . 596

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

FUNERAL AT SEA, A. By J. II. Barker .114

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

GARDEN OF EDEN, THE SITE OF THE. By General Gordon . 314

[Illustrations from Maps by General Gordon.)

GENTLE CUSTOM, A. By Arthur I. Durrant . 45 2

(Illustrations by Pau i. PIARdy. )

GOLDEN TIGER, THE. By F. Nor keys Conneli.588

[Illustrations by Claude A. Shepperson.)

GOOD THAT CAME OF IT, TIIE. By Annie O. Tibbits.736

[Illustrations by A. S. IIartrick.)

HILDA WADE. By Grant Allen.

I.—The Episode of the Patient Who Disappointed Her Doctor . 327

IP—The Episode of the Gentleman Who Had Failed for Everything ... 431

III. —The Episode of the Wife Who Did Her Duty.516

IV. —The Episode of the Man Who Would Not Commit Suicide.693

[Illustrations by Gordon Browne, R.B.A.)

IIIS HOME-COMING. By E. M. Jameson . 21

[Illustrations by Claude A. Shepperson.)

HUMOUR IN THE LAW COURTS. By “Briefless” . 746

[Illustrations by the late Sir Frank Lockwood.)

HUNDREDTH NUMBER OF “TIIE STRAND MAGAZINE,” THE ONE .363

A Chat About Its History by Sir George Newnes, Bart.

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

LXII.—Madame Melba. By Fercy Cross Standing . 12

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

LXIII.—M. Vasili Verestchagin. By Arthur Mee .396

[Illustrations from Pictures and Photographs.)

LXIV.—Mr. A. C. MacLaren. By Fred. W. Ward .* . 509

(Illustrations from Photographs.)

LXV.—Miss Ellen Beach Yaw. By M. Dinorben Griffith. 73 °

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

IN A TIGHT FIX. By Victor L. Whitechurch .658

[Illustrations by Alfred Pearse.)

I VAN K A THE WOLF-SLAYER. By Mark Eastwood . H 4

[Illustrations by J. Finnrmork, R.I.)

LAURA. By Basil .. ••• 672

[Illustrations by Alfred Pearse.)

LAW COURTS, HUMOUR IN THE. By “ Brie^ess.” . 746

[Illustrations by the late Sir Frank Lockwood.)

LETTERS OF BURNE-JONES TO A CHILD. 375

[Illustrated by Facsimiles and Sketches.)

LIQUID AIR. By Ray Stannard Baker . 459

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

LOG-MARKS, UNIQUE. By Alfred I. Burkholder... 59

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

INDEX.

819

1'AGE

MASTER OF CRAFT, A. By W. W. Jacobs . 532. 63 s

{IIIustrations by Will Owen.)

MEMORY-SAVER, THE. A Story for Children. By F. C. Younger. 228

{Illustrations by FI. R. Millar.)

“MERRIMAC,” THE SINKING OF THE. By Raymond Pearson Hobson . 628

[Illustrations from Photographs and Drawings.)

MINING CONTEST, A UNIQUE. By A. M. DONALDSON . ' 784

( Illustrations by Forrest Niven.)

MISS CAYLEY’S ADVENTURES. By Grant Allen.

XI. —The Adventure of the Oriental Attendant . 49

XII. —The Adventure of the Unprofessional Detective . ... 19 1

(. Illustrations by Gordon Browne, R.B.A.)

MONEY, MADE OF. By George Dollar . 796

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

MOUSTACHES, THE TAX ON. By II. J. W. Dam. 769

[Illustrations by Jassef Sullivan.)

MR. BRISHER’S TREASURE. By II. G. Wells . 469

[Illustrations by Claude A. Siiepperson.)

NATURE’S WORKSHOP, IN. By Grant Ali.en

I.—Sextons and Scavengers.

II.— False Pretences .

III. — Plants that Go to Sleep . .

IV. —Masquerades and Disguises .

V.— Some Strange Nurseries .

VI.— Animal and Vegetable Hedgehogs.

[Illustrations by Fred. Knock.)

NO-GOOD BRITISHER, THE. By K. and Hesketii Prichard
{Illustrations by Paul Hardy.)

PIGS OF CELEBRITIES. By Gertrude Bacon
[Illustrated by Sketches.)

“PUNCH,” A PEEP INTO. By John Holt Schooling.

Part I. — 1841 to 1849 .

,, II.—1850 to 1854 .

„ III.—1855 to 1859 .

IV.—1860 to 1864 .

,, V.—1865 to 1869 .

,, VI.—1870 to 1874 .

{Illustrated by Facsimiles.)

QUESTION OF HABIT, A. By W. W. Jacobs .. .381

[Illustrations by W. S. Stacey.)

RAILWAY SENSATIONS, TWO.

I.—A Great Railway Race. By Jeremy Broome .445

II.— A Railway Smash to Order .449

[Illustrations from Photographs.) v

RECORD OF 1811, A. By J. Reed Wade . 218

[Illustrations from Photographs, Old Prints, and Facsimiles.)

RONTGEN RAYS IN WARFARE, THE. By Herbert C. Fyfe. 777

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

ROUND THE FIRE. By A. Conan Doyle, a

VIII. — The Story of The Japanned Box. 3

IX.—The Story of The Jew’s Breast-Plate . 123

X.— The Story of B 24 .243

XI.—The Story of The Latin Tutor .365

XII.— The Story of The Brown Hand .499

[Illustrations by Sidney Paget.)

179

253

419

576

681

149

279

387

555

647

826 THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

I’AGli

SEVEN DRAGONS, THE. By E. Nesbit.

I.—The Book ok Beasts .346

II. —The Purple Stranger.482

III. — The Deliverers ok their Country.602

IV. —The Ice Dragon ; or, Do as You are Told.799

{Illustrations by II. R. Millar.)

SPEAKER’S CHAIR, FROM BEHIND THE. By Henry W. Lucy ... 160, 295, 476, 540, 763

(Illustrations by F. C. Gould.)

SPIDER OF GUYANA, THE. From the French of ErckmaNN-Chatrian . ... 81

{Illustrations by Paul Hardy.)

“STRAND MAGAZINE,” THE ONE HUNDRETII NUMBER OF THE . 363

A Chat About its History by Sir George Newnes, Bari*.

SWITZERLAND FROM A BALLOON. By Charles Herbert . . 664

( Illustrations from Photographs by Captain Ed. Spelter ini.)

TALE OF THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEER, THE. By Neil Wynn Williams . 409

{Illustrations by W. B. Woi.LEN, R.I.)

TAX ON MOUSTACHES, THE. By II. J. W. Dam. ... 769

{Illustrations by Jassef Sullivan.)

TOWN IN THE TREE-TOPS, A. By Ellsworth Douglass . 202

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

TRAINING SHIP “EXMOUTII,” THE. By Dr. Cm. Lei bB rand. 88

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

TRANSPORT RIDER, THE. By Basil Marnan . 270

{Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN, R.I.)

UNIQUE MINING CONTEST, A. By A. M. Donaldson .784

{Illustrations by Forrest Niven.)

VEGETABLE VAGARIES. By Thomas E. Curtis . 343

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

WANTED— A BICYCLE. By Bernard Capes. 7*3

{Illustrations by Paul Hardy.)

WATER SPORTS, CURIOUS. By F. G. Cai.lcoTT . 5*8

(Illustrations from Photographs.)

WEDDING TOUR IN A BALLOON, A. By M. Dinorben Griffith and Mme. Camille

Flammarion. 62

{Illustrations by A. J. Johnson and from Photographs.)

WEEPIN’ WILLIE. By Albert Trapmann . 34

{Illustrations by W. B. VVollen, R.I.)

GEORGE NEWNES. LIMITED, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, AND EXETER STREET, STRAND, LONDON, W.C.

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